•-ook   ■     '^     '^^  -r   ►he  last  dote  stamped  below 


^;,  ALlFORNI^, 

.i-<ARY, 
iLDS  A,iNUELlIS,  CALIF. 


WILEY   &   PUTNAM'S 

LIBRARY  OF 

CHOICE     READING. 


POEMS: 

BY   THOMAS   HOOD 


LATELY  PUBLISHED, 
PROSE    AND    VERSE, 

BY 

THOMAS   HOOD. 

Forming  Nos.  XVL  XIX.  Wiley  &  Putnam's  Library  of  Choice  Read- 
ing, 2  vols.,  16mo  ,  75  cts., — or  one  volume,  bound  in  red  cloth,  $1.00. 

Contents. — Preface  to  Hood's  Own,  1839.  The  Pugsley  Papers.  The 
Dream  of  Eugene  Aram.  Black,  White  and  Brown.  I  Remember,  I  Re- 
member. The  Portrait ;  being  an  Apology  for  not  making  an  attempt  on 
my  own  life.  Literary  Reminiscences.  The  Lost  Heir.  An  Undertaker. 
Miss  Killmansegg  and  her  Precious  Leg.  Fair  Ines.  Ballad.  Ruth.  Au- 
tumn. Song.  Ode  to  Melancholy.  The  Great  Conflagration.  A  Tale  of 
a  Trumpet.  Boz  in  America.  Copyright  and  Copywrong.  Prospectus  to 
Hood's  Magazine.  The  Haunted  House.  Life  in  the  Sick  Room.  An 
Autograph.  Domestic  Mesmerism.  The  Elm  Tree.  Lay  of  the  Laborer. 
The  Bridge  of  Sighs.     The  Lady's  Dream.     Song  of  the  Shirt. 


•POEMS: 


BY   THOMAS    HOOD, 


fc  ■»  T 


•  '   •     >       • 


•::hi 


NEW  YORK: 
WILEY    AND    PUTNAM 


1846. 


c  c  t 


PREFACE.  ^^Ai 

This  collection  of  Mr.  Hood's  serious  Poems  is  made  in 
fulfilment  of  his  own  desire.  It  was  among  his  last  instruc- 
tions to  those  who  w'ere  dearest  to  him. 

If  its  reception  should  justify  the  earnest  hope  which  the 
writer  had  allowed  himself  to  entertain,  it  will  be  followed 
by  a  volume  composed  of  the  more  thoughtful  pieces  in 
his  Poems  of  wit  and  humor. 

It  is  believed  that  the  most  sacred  duty  which  his  friends 
owed  to  his  memory  will  thus  have  been  discharged  ;  and 
that  in  any  future  recital  of  the  names  of  writers  who  have 
contributed  to  the  stock  of  genuine  English  poetry,  Thomas 
Hood  will  find  honorable  mention. 

Some  minor  pieces  printed  for  the  first  time  are  placed 
at  the  commencement  of  the  Volume. 

LoNDO.v,  December,  1845. 

To  these  few  and  touching  words  of  the  London  Pre- 
face, the  American  publishers  have  only  to  add  that  the 
sacredness  of  Hood's  dying  request  has  been  religiously 
observed  in  the  reprint — not  a  line  of  the  Poems  having 
been  omitted.  All  will  be  found  either  in  the  present  vol- 
ume or  in  the  recently  published  "  Prose  and  Verse  "  in  the 
_  Library.  In  the  latter  collection  are  included  that  wonder- 
ful composition  the  Legend  of  Miss  Killmansegg,  the  Elm 
Tree,  the  Dream  of  Eugene  Aram,  various  Odes  and  Bal- 


vi  PREFACE. 


lads,  the  Song  of  the  Shirt,  and  the  chief  of  the  humanita- 
rian poems  by  which  Hood  in  his  last  days  became  so  en- 
deared to  the  world. 

The  London  Press  has  but  one  voice  in  speaking  of  Mr. 
Hood  and  his  writings — admiration  mingled  with  pathetic 
regret.  Says  the  Daily  News  (no  doubt  Mr.  Dickens 
himself  holding  the  pen)  in  language  echoed  by  many 
others : — 

"  '  This  collection  of  Mr.  Hood's  serious  poems  is  made 
in  fulfilment  of  his  own  desire.  It  was  among  his  last 
instructions  to  those  who  were  dearest  to  him.' 

*'  Much  is  expressed  in  this  opening  paragraph  of  the  brief 
and  unaffected  preface  to  this  book.  Around  the  death-bed 
of  the  great  genius  whose  name  it  bears,  consoling  recol- 
lections of  the  thoughtful  exercise  of  high  powers  diffused 
peace  and  resignation.  No  wish  to  blot  one  line  in  these, 
his  best  and  worthiest  efforts,  troubled  his  repose.  But, 
arrived  at  the  last  sad  test  and  trial  of  all  that  is  good  and 
durable  in  life,  he  could  contemplate  his  legacy  to  mankind, 
and  thank  God  for  its  Christian  spirit,  and  look  with  hope 
and  trust  to  its  results,  when  he  should  be  no  more. 

"  Pity  for  the  erring,  mercy  to  the  weak,  scorn  of  hypo- 
crisy and  bigotry  ;  the  preservation,  through  a  rough  life, 
of  every  humanising  and  tender  thought  to  which  its  youth 
gave  birth,  were  the  sustaining  impulses  to  this  desire,  as 
they  are  the  spirit  of  these  poems.  If  any  man  can  read 
The  Bridge  of  Sighs,  without  the  deepest  sympathy  and 
compassion,  or  The  Song  of  a  Shirt,  without  being 
touched  to  the  soul,  in  his  awakened  sorrow  for  the  miseries 
in  which  so  many  of  his  fellow-creatures  pine  and  wear 
away  their  lives,  let  him 

Pray  Heaven  for  a  human  heart, 


PREFACE.  vii 


that  he  may  come,  in  time,  to  have  some  portion  in  the  last 
bequest  of  Thomas  Hood. 

"  Passing  from  these  productions  as  being  widely  known 
of  late,  and  (for  the  same  reason)  from  The  Dream  of  Eu- 
gene Aram,  The  Haunted  House,  and  The  Golden  Le- 
gend OF  Miss  Killmansegg  (all  of  extraordinary  merit),  we 
will  confine  our  extracts  to  two  minor  pieces,  with  which 
our  readers  may  be  less  acquainted.  There  is,  in  the  first, 
a  sentiment  so  touching  and  so  universal,  that  thei'e  will 
probably  be  no  collection  of  poems  in  the  English  tongue 
for  centuries  to  come,  in  which  it  will  not  find  a  place : — 

STANZAS. 

Farewell  Life  !  my  senses  swim, 
And  the  world  is  growing  dim  : 
Thronging  shadows  cloud  the  light, 
Like  the  advent  of  the  night — 
Colder,  colder,  colder  still, 
Upward  steals  a  vapor  chill; 
Strong  the  earthy  odor  grows — 
I  smell  the  mould  above  the  rose  ! 

Welcome  Life  !  the  Spirit  strives  ! 
Strength  returns  and  hope  revives  ; 
Cloudy  fears  and  shapes  forlorn 
Fly  like  shadows  at  the  morn, — 
O'er  the  earth  there  comes  a  bloom  ; 
Sunny  light  for  sullen  gloom. 
Warm  perfume  for  vapor  cold — 
I  smell  the  rose  above  the  mould  ! 


April,  1S45. 


"  The  next  (the  Ode  on  a  distant  prospect  of  Clapiiam 
Academy)  is  of  a  different  class,  but  who  has  not  this  poem 
in  his  mind  and  his  experience  ? 


viii  PREFACE. 


"  The  preface,  from  which  we  have  ah'eady  quoted,  ex- 
presses a  hope  '  that  in  any  future  recital  of  the  names  of 
writers  who  have  contributed  to  the  stock  of  genuine 
EngHsh  poetry,  Thomas  Hood  will  find  honorable  men- 
tion.' Before  it  can  be  otherwise,  not  only  must  the  cha- 
racter of  genuine  English  poetry  be  altogether  changed,  but 
with  it  the  recollections,  fancies,  affections,  and  very  nature 
of  men. 

"  We  may  be  allowed  to  add  one  parting  word  ;  not  of  the 
Author,  but  the  deceased  friend.  That  he  was  a  man  of  a 
most  free  and  noble  spirit,  who  harbored  none  of  the 
grudging  jealousies  too  often  attendant  on  the  pursuit  of 
literature ;  who  found  no  detraction  from  his  own  merits 
in  the  success  and  praise  of  another  ;  who,  beset  by  great 
infirmity  of  body,  and  many  sharp  anxieties  of  mind,  could 
travel  far  out  of  his  way  to  swell,  with  his  generous  pen, 
the  triumph  of  a  young  writer,  with  whom  he  had,  at  that 
time,  little  or  no  acquaintance,  saving  through  his  works  ; — 
no  one  living  should  know  better,  than  the  writer  of  this 
faltering  tribute  to  his  memory." 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 
THE   LEE-SHORE  .  .  .  .  •  .  .  1 

THE   DEATH-BED         ....•••  3 

TO    MY    DAUGHTER.       ON    HER    BIRTHDAY  .  .  .  .4 

LINES   ON   SEEING    MY    WIFE    AND   TWO    CHILDREN  SLEEPING  IN  THE 

SAME  CHAMBER  ......  6 

TO  A  CHILD    EMBRACING   ITS    MOTHER    .  .  .  .  .7 

STANZAS  ........ 


TO  A    FALSE    FRIEND 


TIME,  HOPE,  AND  MEMORY 
FLOWERS 

TO    •       . 

TO    

TO    . 


SONNETS. 


TO   THE    OCEAN 

LEAR 

SONNET    TO    A    SONNET 


TO 


9 
10 


THE    poet's    portion  .  .  •  •  •  .11 


SERENADE         .....  \  .  . 

verses    in    an    ALBUM    ....  . 

BALLAD  ........ 

THE  ROMANCE    OF   COLOGNE  .  .  .  .  .  .21 

TO   .       COMPOSED   AT   ROTTERDAM  .  .  .  .  23 


13 
14 
15 

16 
17 
IS 
19 
20 


26 

27 

.  28 

FALSE    POETS    AND   TRUE          ......  29 


- .  .30 

FOR    THE    llTH    OF    FEBRUARY  .....  31 


CONTENTS. 


PAOB 
TO    A   SLEEPING  CHILD      .  .  .  .  .  .  .32 

TO    A   SLEEPING    CHILD  ......  33 

"  THE    WORLD   IS    WITH   ME,    AND   ITS    MANY    CARES  "  .  .34 


/ 


THE    PLEA  OF  THE    MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES      .  .  .  .35 

HERO    AATD   LEANDER         .                  .                                    .                  .                  .  .83 

LYCUS,  THE   CENTAUR                ......  119 

THE    TWO    PEACOCKS    OF   BEDFONT  .....    135 

MINOR   POEMS, 

A    RETROSPECTIVE    REVIEW                      .....  147 

THE  DEPARTURE   OF    SUMMER       .....  151 

SONG.       FOR    MUSIC       .......  157 

ODE  :    AUTUMN         .......  158 

HYMN   TO    THE    SUN     .......  161 

TO   A   COLD   BEAUTY              .                  .                  .                  .                  .                  .  163 

AUTUMN             .                                    ......  165 

THE    SEA   OF   DEATH.       A  FRAGMENT         ....  166 

BALLAD                ........  168 

BALLAD        ........  169 

THE    WATER    LADY.    .......  171 

THE  EXILE                   .......  1 72 

TO    AN    ABSENTEE          .......  173 

SONG                ........  174 

ODE    TO   THE    MOON      .......  175 

TO .......  179 

THE  FORSAKEN               .......  ISO 

SONNETS. 

WRITTEN  IN  A  VOLUME  OF  SHAKSPEARE                  .                  .                  .  181 

TO   FANCY           ........  182 

TO    AN   ENTHUSIAST               ......  183 

"  IT   IS   NOT   DEATH,  THAT   SOMETIME    IN   A    SIGH  "                  .                  .  184 

*' BY   Ev'rY    SWEET    TRADITION   OF   TRUE    HEARTS"       .                  .  185 

ON   RECEIVING    A    GIFT               ......  186 

SILENCE       .....                                    .                  .  137 

THE    CURSE    OF   ADAM   THE    OLD   CURSE    OF    ALL "                 .                  .  188 

LOVE,    DEAREST    LADY,    SUCH    AS   I    WOULD    SPEAK  "                     .  189 


CONTENTS.  xi 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

THE   WORKHOUSE    CLOCK.       AN  ALLEGORY    .  .  ,  .  193 

ODE   TO    RAE    WILSON,  ESQ.  .  .  .  ,  196 

THE    TWO    SWANS.       A  FAIRY   TALE    .....  214 

ODE    ON   A   DISTANT   PROSPECT   OF   CLAPHAM    ACADEMY  .  225 


POEMS. 


THE  LEE-SHORE. 


Sleet  !  and  Hail  !  and  Thunder ! 

And  ye  Winds  that  rave, 
Till  the  sands  thereunder 

Tinge  the  sullen  wave — 

Winds,  that  like  a  Demon, 

Howl  with  horrid  note 
Round  the  toiling  Seaman, 

In  his  tossing  boat — 

From  his  humble  dwelling. 

On  the  shingly  shore. 
Where  the  billows  swelling, 

Keep  such  hollow  roar — 

From  that  weeping  Woman, 
Seeking  with  her  cries, 

Succor  superhuman 

From  the  frowning  skies — 
2 


HOOD'S  POEMS. 


From  the  Urchin  pining 
For  his  Father's  knee — 

From  the  lattice  shining, 
Drive  him  out  to  sea ! 

Let  broad  leagues  dissever 
Him  from  yonder  foam  ; — 

Oh,  God  !  to  think  Man  ever 
Comes  too  near  his  Home  ! 


THE  DEATH-BED. 


THE   DEATH-BED. 


We  watch'd  her  breathing  thro'  the  night, 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seem'd  to  speak, 

So  slowly  mov'd  about, 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears. 

Our  fears  our  hopes  belied — 
We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept. 

And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad. 
And  chill  with  early  showers, 

Her  quiet  eyelids  clos'd — she  had 
Another  morn  than  ours. 


HOOD'S  POEMS. 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER 

ON    HER    BIRTHDAY, 


Dear  Fanny  !  nine  long  years  ago, 
While  yet  the  morning  sun  was  low, 
And  rosy  with  the  eastern  glow 

The  landscape  smil'd ; 
Whilst  low'd  the  newly-waken'd  herds — 
Sweet  as  the  early  song  of  birds, 
I  heard  those  first,  delightful  words, 

"Thou  hast  a  child!" 

Along  with  that  uprising  dew 

Tears  glisten'd  in  my  eyes,  though  few, 

To  hail  a  dawning  quite  as  new 

To  me,  as  Time  : 
It  was  not  sorrow — not  annoy — 
But  like  a  happy  maid,  though  coy. 
With  grief-like  welcome,  even  Joy 

Forestalls  its  prime. 

So  may'st  thou  live,  dear !  many  years. 
In  all  the  bliss  that  life  endears. 
Not  without  smiles,  nor  yet  from  tears 
Too  strictly  kept  : 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER. 


When  first  thy  infant  littleness 
I  folded  in  my  fond  caress, 
The  greatest  proof  of  happiness 
Was  this — I  wept. 

Sept.,  1839. 


HOOD'S  POEMS. 


LINES 


ON     SEEING   MY    WIFE    AND    TWO    CHILDREN    SLEEPING    IN 
THE    SAME    CHAMBER. 


And  has  the  earth  lost  its  so  spacious  round, 

The  sky  its  blue  circumference  above, 

That  in  this  little  chamber  there  is  found 

Both  earth  and  heaven — my  universe  of  love ! 

All  that  my  God  can  give  me  or  remove, 

Here  sleeping,  save  myself,  in  mimic  death. 

Sweet  that  in  this  small  compass  I  behove 

To  live  their  living  and  to  breathe  their  breath  ! 

Almost  I  wish  that  with  one  common  sigh 

We  might  resign  all  mundane  care  and  strife, 

And  seek  together  that  transcendent  sky, 

Where  Father,  Mother,  Children,  Husband,  Wife, 

Together  pant  in  everlasting  life ! 

CoBLENTz,  Nov.,  1835. 


TO  A  CHILD. 


TO   A   CHILD 


EMBEACme    HIS    MOTHER. 


Love  thy  mother,  little  one  ! 
Kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  again, — 
Hereafter  she  may  have  a  son 
Will  kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  in  vain. 
Love  thy  mother,  little  one  ! 


Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes, 
And  mirror  back  her  love  for  thee, — 
Hereafter  thou  may'st  shudder  sighs 
To  meet  them  when  they  cannot  see. 
Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes ! 


III. 


Press  her  lips  the  while  they  glow 
With  love  that  they  have  often  told, — 
Hereafter  thou  may'st  press  in  wo, 
And  kiss  them  till  thine  own  are  cold. 
Press  her  lips  the  while  they  glow  ! 


HOOD'S  POEMS. 


IV. 


Oh,  revere  her  raven  hair ! 
Altho'  it  be  not  silver-grey  ; 
Too  early  Death,  led  on  by  Care, 
May  snatch  save  one  dear  lock  away. 
Oh  !  revere  her  raven  hair  ! 


Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn. 
That  Heaven  may  long  the  stroke  defer,' 
For  thou  may'st  live  the  hour  forlorn 
When  thou  wilt  ask  to  die  with  her. 
Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn  ! 


STANZAS. 


STANZAS, 


Fakewell  Life  !   my  senses  swim, 
And  the  world  is  growing  dim  : 
Thronging  shadows  cloud  the  light, 
Like  the  advent  of  the  night — 
Colder,  colder,  colder  still. 
Upward  steals  a  vapor  chill ; 
Strong  the  earthy  odor  grows — 
I  smell  the  mould  above  the  rose ! 

Welcome  Life  !  the  Spirit  strives ! 
Strength  returns  and  hope  revives  ; 
Cloudy  fears  and  shapes  forlorn 
Fly  like  shadows  at  the  morn, — 
O'er  the  earth  there  comes  a  bloom  ; 
Sunny  light  for  sullen  gloom. 
Warm  perfume  for  vapor  cold — 
I  smell  the  rose  above  the  mould  ! 


April,  1845. 


2* 


10  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


TO   A   FALSE   FRIEND. 


Our  hands  have  met,  but  not  our  hearts  ; 
Our  hands  will  never  meet  again. 
Friends,  if  we  have  ever  been, 
Friends  we  cannot  now  remain : 
I  only  know  I  lov'd  you  once, 
I  only  know  I  lov'd  in  vain  ; 
Our  hands  have  met,  but  not  our  hearts  j 
Our  hands  will  never  meet  again  ! 

Then  farewell  to  heart  and  hand ! 

I  would  our  hands  had  never  met  : 

Even  the  outward  form  of  love 

Must  be  resign'd  with  some  regret. 

Friends,  we  still  might  seem  to  be, 

If  my  wrong  could  e'er  forget 

Our  hands  have  join'd  but  not  our  hearts  ; 

I  would  our  hands  had  never  met ! 


THE  POET'S  PORTION.  11 


THE   POET'S  PORTION, 


What  is  mine — a  treasury — a  dower — 
A  magic  talisman  of  miglity  power  ? 
A  poet's  wide  possession  of  the  earth. 
He  has  th'  enjoyment  of  a  flower's  birth 
Before  its  budding — ere  the  first  red  streaks, — 
And  Winter  cannot  rob  him  of  their  cheeks. 
Look — if  his  dawn  be  not  as  other  men's  ! 
Twenty  bright  fluslies — ere  another  kens 
The  first  of  sunlight  is  abroad — he  sees 
Its  golden  'lection  of  the  topmost  trees, 
And  opes  the  splendid  fissures  of  the  morn. 
When  do  his  fruits  delay,  when  doth  his  corn 
Linger  for  harvesting  ?     Before  the  leaf 
Is  commonly  abroad,  in  his  pil'd  sheaf 
The  flagging  poppies  lose  their  ancient  flame. 
No  sweet  there  is,  no  pleasure  I  can  name, 
Bnt  he  will  sip  it  first — before  the  lees. 
'  Tis  his  to  taste  rich  honey, — ere  the  bees 
Are  busy  with  the  brooms.     He  may  forestall 
June's  rosy  advent  for  his  coronal  ; 
Before  th'  expectant  buds  upon  the  bough, 
Twining  his  thoughts  to  bloom  upon  his  brow. 
Oh !  blest  to  see  the  flower  in  its  seed. 
Before  its  leafy  presence  ;  for  indeed 


12  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


Leaves  are  but  wkigs,  on  which  the  summer  flies, 
And  each  thing  perishable  fades  and  dies, 
Escap'd  in  thought ;  but  his  rich  thinkings  be 
Like  overflows  of  immortality. 
So  that  what  there  is  steep'd  shall  perish  never, 
But  live  and  bloom,  and  be  a  joy  for  ever. 


TIME,  HOPE,  AND  MEMORY.  13 


TIME,   HOPE,   AND   MEMORY 


I  HEAKD  a  gentle  maiden,  in  the  spring, 
Set  her  sweet  sighs  to  music,  and  thus  sing  : 
"  Fly  through  the  world,  and  I  will  follow  thee, 
Only  for  looks  that  may  turn  back  on  me  ; 

Only  for  roses  that  your  chance  may  throw — 
Though  wither'd — I  will  wear  them  on  my  brow, 
To  be  a  thoughtful  fragrance  to  my  brain  ; 
Warm'd  with  such  love,  that  thev  will  bloom  ajjain. 

Thy  love  before  thee,  I  must  tread  behind, 
Kissing  thy  foot-prints,  though  to  me  unkind  j 
But  trust  not  all  her  fondness  though  it  seem, 
Lest  thy  true  love  should  rest  on  a  false  dream. 

Her  face  is  smiling,  and  her  voice  is  sweet  j 

But  smiles  betray,  and  music  sings  deceit ; 

And  words  speak  false ; — yet,  if  they  welcome  prove, 

I'll  be  their  echo,  and  repeat  their  love. 

Only  if  waken'd  to  sad  truth  at  last, 
The  bitterness  to  come,  and  sweetness  past ; 
When  thou  art  vext,  then,  turn  again,  and  see 
Thou  hast  lov'd  Hope,  but  Memory  lov'd  thee." 


14  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


FLOWERS, 


I  WILL  not  have  the  mad  Clytie, 
Whose  head  is  turn'd  by  the  sun ; 
The  tulip  is  a  courtly  quean, 
Whoin,  therefore,  I  will  shun  ; 
The  cowslip  is  a  country  wench. 
The  violet  is  a  nun ; — 
But  I  will  woo  the  dainty  rose, 
The  queen  of  every  one. 

The  pea  is  but  a  wanton  witch, 
In  too  much  haste  to  wed. 
And  clasps  her  rings  on  every  hand  ; 
The  wolfsbane  1  should  dread  ; 
Nor  will  I  dreary  rosemarye, 
That  always  mourns  the  dead  ; — 
But  I  will  woo  the  dainty  rose. 
With  her  cheeks  of  tender  red. 

The  lily  is  all  in  white,  like  a  saint, 

And  so  is  no  mate  for  me — 

And  the  daisy's  cheek  is  tipp'd  with  a  blush, 

She  is  of  such  low  degree  ; 

Jasmine  is  sweet,  and  has  many  loves. 

And  the  broom's  betroth'd  to  the  bee  ; — 

But  I  will  plight  with  the  dainty  rose, 

For  fairest  of  all  is  she. 


TO  .  15 


TO 


Still  glides  the  gentle  streamlet  on, 
With  shifting  current  new  and  strange  ; 
The  water  that  was  here  is  gone, 
But  those  green  shadows  never  change. 

Serene  or  ruffled  by  the  storm, 
On  present  waves,  as  on  the  past. 
The  mirror'd  grove  retains  its  form. 
The  self-same  trees  their  semblance  cast. 

The  hue  each  fleeting  globule  wears, 
That  drop  bequeaths  it  to  the  next ; 
One  picture  still  the  surface  bears, 
To  illustrate  the  murmur'd  text. 

So,  love,  however  time  may  flow, 
Fresh  hours  pursuing  those  that  flee, 
One  constant  image  still  shall  show 
My  tide  of  life  is  true  to  thee. 


16  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


TO 


Let  us  make  a  leap,  my  dear, 
In  our  love,  of  many  a  year, 
And  date  it  very  far  away, 
On  a  bright  clear  summer  day, 
When  the  heart  was  like  a  sun 
To  itself,  and  falsehood  none  ; 
And  the  rosy  lips  a  part 
Of  the  very  loving  heart. 
And  the  shining  of  the  eye 
But  a  sign  to  know  it  by  ; — 
When  my  faults  were  all  forgiven, 
And  my  life  deserv'd  of  Heaven. 
Dearest,  let  us  reckon  so, 
And  love  for  all  that  long  ago ; 
Each  absence  count  a  year  complete. 
And  keep  a  birthday  when  we  meet. 


TO  .  17 


TO 


I  LOVE  thee — I  love  thee  ! 

'Tis  all  that  I  can  say  ; — 
It  is  my  vision  in  the  night, 

My  dreaming  in  the  day  ; 
The  very  echo  of  my  heart, 

The  blessing  when  I  pray  : 
I  love  thee — I  love  thee  ! 

Is  all  that  I  can  say. 

I  love  thee — I  love  thee  ! 

Is  ever  on  my  tongue  ; 
In  all  my  proudest  poesy, 

That  chorus  still  is  sung  ; 
It  is  the  verdict  of  my  eyes, 

Amidst  the  gay  and  young  : 
I  love  thee — I  love  thee  ! 

A  thousand  maids  among. 

I  love  thee — I  love  thee  ! 

Thy  bright  and  hazel  glance, 
The  mellow  lute  upon  those  lips, 

Whose  tender  tones  entrance  ; 
But  most,  dear  heart  of  hearts,  thy  proofs 

That  still  these  words  enhance, 
I  love  thee — I  love  thee  ! 

Whatever  be  thy  chance. 


18  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


SERENADE 


Ah,  sweet,  thou  little  knowest  how 

I  wake  and  passionate  watches  keep ; 
And  yet  while  I  address  thee  now, 

Methinks  thou  smilest  in  thy  sleep. 
'Tis  sweet  enough  to  make  me  weep, 

That  tender  thought  of  love  and  thee, 
That  while  the  world  is  hush'd  so  deep, 

Thy  soul's  perhaps  awake  to  me  ! 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on,  sweet  bride  of  sleep  ! 

With  golden  visions  for  thy  dower. 
While  I  this  midnight  vigil  keep. 

And  bless  thee  in  thy  silent  bower ; 
To  me  'tis  sweeter  than  the  power 

Of  sleep,  and  fairy  dreams  unfurl'd, 
That  I  alone,  at  this  still  hour. 

In  patient  love  outwatch  the  world. 


VERSES  IN  AN  ALBUM.  19 


VERSES   IN   AN  ALBUM, 


Far  above  the  hollow 
Tempest,  and  its  moan, 
Singeth  bright  Apollo 
In  his  golden  zone, — 
Cloud  doth  never  shade  him. 
Nor  a  storm  invade  him, 
On  his  joyous  throne. 

So  when  I  behold  me 
In  an  orb  as  bright. 
How  thy  soul  doth  fold  me 
In  its  throne  of  light  ! 
Sorrow  never  paineth, 
Nor  a  care  attaineth. 
To  that  blessed  height. 


20  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


BALLAD. 


It  was  not  in  the  winter 
Our  loving  lot  was  cast ; 
It  was  the  time  of  roses, — 
We  pluck'd  them  as  we  pass'd  ! 

That  churlish  season  never  frown'd 
On  early  lovers  yet ! 
Oh,  no — the  world  was  newly  crown'd 
With  flowers  when  first  we  met. 

'Twas  twilight,  and  I  bade  you  go, 
But  still  you  held  me  fast ; 
It  was  the  time  of  roses, — 
We  pluck'd  them  as  we  pass'd  ! 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  COLOGNE.  21 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  COLOGNE 


'Tis  even — on  the  pleasant  banks  of  Rhine 
The  thrush  is  singing  and  the  dove  is  cooing  ; 
A  Youth  and  Maiden  on  the  turf  recline 
Alone — and  he  is  wooing. 


"o- 


Yet  woos  in  vain,  for  to  the  voice  of  love 
No  kindly  sympathy  the  Maid  discovers, 
Though  round  them  both,  and  in  the  air  above, 
The  tender  spirit  hovers. 

Untouch'd  by  lovely  Nature  and  her  laws, 
The  more  he  pleads,  more  coyly  she  represses; 
Her  lips  denies,  and  now  her  hand  withdraws, 
Rejecting  his  addresses. 

Fair  is  she  as  the  dreams  young  poets  weave, 
Bright  eyes  and  dainty  lips  and  tresses  curly, 
In  outward  loveliness  a  child  of  Eve, 
But  cold  as  nymph  of  Lurley. 

The  more  Love  tries  her  pity  to  engross, 
The  more  she  chills  him  with  a  strange  behavior ; 
Now  tells  her  beads,  now  gazes  on  the  Cross 
And  image  of  the  Saviour. 


22  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


Forth  goes  the  lover  with  a  farewell  moan, 
As  from  the  presence  of  a  thing  unhuman  ; — 
Oh,  what  unholy  spell  hath  turn'd  to  stone 
The  young  warm  heart  of  woman  ! 


'Tis  midnight — and  the  moonbeam,  cold  and  wan. 
On  bower  and  river  quietly  is  sleeping, 
And  o'er  the  corse  of  a  self-murder'd  man 
The  Maiden  fair  is  weeping. 

In  vain  she  looks  into  his  glassy  eyes, 
No  pressure  answers  to  her  hands  so  pressing ; 
In  her  fond  arms  impassively  he  lies, 
Clay-cold  to  her  caressing. 

Despairing,  stunn'd,  by  her  eternal  loss, 
She  flies  to  succor  that  may  best  beseem  her  j 
But,  lo  !  a  frowning  figure  veils  the  Cross, 
And  hides  the  blest  Redeemer  ! 

With  stern  right  hand  it  stretches  forth  a  scroll, 
Wherein  she  reads,  in  melancholy  letters. 
The  cruel,  fatal  pact  that  placed  her  soul 
And  her  young  heart  in  fetters. 

"  Wretch  !  sinner  !  renegade  !  to  truth  and  God, 
Thy  holy  faith  for  human  love  to  barter  ! " 
No  more  she  hears,  but  on  the  bloody  sod 
Sinks,  Bigotry's  last  martyr  ! 

And  side  by  side  the  hapless  Lovers  lie  ; 
Tell  me,  harsh  Priest !  by  yonder  tragic  token, 
What  part  hath  God  in  such  a  bond,  whereby 
Or  hearts  or  vows  are  broken  ? 


TO  .  23 


TO • 

COMPOSED    AT    ROTTERDAM. 


I  GAZE  upon  a  city, — 
A  city  new  and  strange, — 
Down  many  a  watery  vista 
My  fancy  takes  a  range  ; 
From  side  to  side  I  saunter, 
And  wonder  where  I  am  ; 
And  can  you  be  in  England, 
And  I  at  Rotterdam  ! 

Before  me  lie  dark  waters 
In  broad  canals  and  deep, 
Whereon  the  silver  moonbeams 
Sleep,  restless  in  their  sleep  ; 
A  sort  of  vulgar  Venice 
Reminds  me  where  I  am  ; 
Yes,  yes,  you  are  in  England, 
And  I'm  at  Rotterdam. 

Tall  liouscs  witli  quaint  gables. 
Where  frequent  windows  shine, 
Aud  quays  that  lead  to  bridges,' 
And  trees  in  formal  line, 


24  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


And  masts  of  spicy  vessels 
From  western  Surinam, 
All  tell  me  you're  in  England, 
But  I'm  in  Rotterdam. 

Those  sailors,  how  outlandish 
The  face  and  form  of  each  ! 
They  deal  in  foreign  gestures, 
And  use  a  foreign  speech  ; 
A  tongue  not  learn'd  near  Isis, 
Or  studied  by  the  Cam, 
Declares  that  you're  in  England, 
And  I'm  at  Rotterdam. 

And  now  across  a  market 
My  doubtful  way  I  trace, 
Where  stands  a  solemn  statue, 
The  Genius  of  the  place  ; 
And  to  the  great  Erasmus 
I  offer  my  salaam  ; 
Who  tells  me  you're  in  England, 
But  I'm  at  Rotterdam. 

The  coffee-room  is  open — 
I  mingle  in  its  crowd, — 
The  dominos  are  noisy — 
The  hookahs  raise  a  cloud  ; 
The  flavor  now  of  Fearon's, 
That  mingles  with  my  dram. 
Reminds  me  you're  in  England, 
And  I'm  at  Rotterdam. 


TO .  25 

Then  here  it  goes,  a  bumper — 
The  toast  it  shall  be  mine, 
In  Schiedam,  or  in  sherry, 
Tokay,  or  hock  of  Rhine  ; 
It  well  deserves  the  brightest, 
Where  sunbeam  ever  swam — 
"  The  girl  I  love  in  England" 
I  drink  at  Rotterdam  ! 


March,  1835. 


26  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


I. 

TO    THE    OCEAN. 
ICoblentz,  May,  1835.) 


Shall  I  rebuke  thee,  Ocean,  my  old  love. 
That  once,  in  rage  with  the  wild  winds  at  strife, 
Thou  darest  menace  my  unit  of  a  life, 
Sending  my  clay  below,  my  soul  above. 
Whilst  roar'd  thy  waves,  like  lions  when  they  rove 
By  night,  and  bound  upon  their  prey  by  stealth  ? 
Yet  did'st  thou  ne'er  restore  my  fainting  health  ? — 
Did'st  thou  ne'er  murmur  gently  like  the  dove  ? 
Nay,  did'st  thou  not  against  my  own  dear  shore 
Full  break,  last  link  between  my  land  and  me  ? — 
My  absent  friends  talk  in  thy  very  roar, 
In  thy  waves'  beat  their  kindly  pulse  I  see, 
And,  if  1  must  not  see  my  England  more. 
Next  to  her  soil,  my  grave  be  found  in  thee  ! 


SONNETS.  27 


11. 


LEAR. 


A  POOR  old  king,  with  sorrow  for  my  crown, 
Thron'd  upon  straw,  and  mantled  with  the  wind- 
For  pity,  my  own  tears  have  made  me  blind 
That  I  might  never  see  my  children's  frown  ; 
And  may  be  madness,  like  a  friend,  has  thrown 
A  folded  fillet  over  my  dark  mind. 
So  that  unkindly  speech  may  sound  for  kind, — 
Albeit  I  know  not. — I  am  childish  grown — 
And  have  not  gold  to  purchase  wit  withal — 
I  that  have  once  maintain'd  most  royal  state — 
A  very  bankrupt  now  that  may  not  call 
My  child,  my  child — all-beggar'd  save  in  tears, 
Wherewith  I  daily  weep  an  old  man's  fate, 
Foolish — and  blind — and  overcome  with  years ! 


28  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


III. 


SONNET    TO    A    SONNET. 


Rare  composition  of  a  poet-knight, 
Most  chivalrous  amongst  chivalric  men, 
Distinguish'd  for  a  polish'd  lance  and  pen 
In  tuneful  contest  and  in  tourney-fight ; 
Lustrous  in  scholarship,  in  honor  bright, 
Accomplish'd  in  all  graces  current  then. 
Humane  as  any  in  historic  ken, 
Brave,  handsome,  noble,  affable,  polite  ; 
Most  courteous  to  that  race  become  of  late 
So  fiercely  scornful  of  all  kind  advance, 
Rude,  bitter,  coarse,  implacable  in  hate 
To  Albion,  plotting  ever  her  mischance, — 
Alas,  fair  verse !  hovi'  false  and  out  of  date 
Thy  phrase  "  sweet  enemy  "  applied  to  France  ! 


SONNETS.  29 


IV. 


FALSE    POETS    AND    TKTJE. 


Look  how  the  lark  soars  upward  and  is  gone, 

Turning  a  spirit  as  he  nears  the  sky  ! 

His  voice  is  heard,  but  body  there  is  none 

To  fix  the  vague  excursions  of  the  eye. 

So,  poets'  songs  are  with  us,  tho'  they  die 

Obscur'd,  and  hid  by  death's  oblivious  shroud, 

And  Earth  inherits  the  rich  melody 

Like  raining  music  from  the  morning  cloud. 

Yet,  few  there  be  who  pipe  so  sweet  and  loud, 

Their  voices  reach  us  through  the  lapse  of  space 

The  noisy  day  is  deafen'd  by  a  crowd 

Of  undistinguish'd  birds,  a  twittering  race  ; 

But  only  lark  and  nightingale  forlorn 

Fill  up  the  silences  of  night  and  morn. 


30  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


TO 


My  heart  is  sick  with  longing,  tho'  I  feed 

On  hope  ;  Time  goes  with  such  a  heavy  pace 

That  neither  brings  nor  takes  from  thy  embrace, 

As  if  he  slept — forgetting  his  old  speed  : 

For,  as  in  sunshine  only  we  can  read 

The  march  of  minutes  on  the  dial's  face. 

So  in  the  shadows  of  this  lonely  place 

There  is  no  love,  and  Time  is  dead  indeed. 

But  when,  dear  lady,  I  am  near  thy  heart. 

Thy  smile  is  time,  and  then  so  swift  it  flies, 

It  seems  we  only  meet  to  tear  apart 

With  aching  hands  and  lingering  of  eyes. 

Alas,  alas  !  that  we  must  learn  hours'  flight 

By  the  same  light  of  love  that  makes  them  bright ! 


SONNETS.  31 


VI. 

FOR    THE    14th    of    FEBRUARY. 


No  popular  respect  will  I  omit 

To  do  thee  honor  on  this  happy  day, 

When  every  loyal  lover  tasks  his  wit 

His  simple  truth  in  studious  rhymes  to  pay, 

And  to  his  mistress  dear  his  hopes  convey. 

Rather  thou  knowest  I  would  still  outrun 

All  calendars  with  Love's, — whose  date  alway 

Thy  bright  eyes  govern  better  than  the  Sun, — 

For  with  thy  favor  was  my  life  begun  ; 

And  still  I  reckon  on  from  smiles  to  smiles, 

And  not  by  summers,  for  I  thrive  on  none 

But  those  thy  cheerful  countenance  compiles  : 

Oh  !  if  it  be  to  choose  and  call  thee  mine, 

Love,  thou  art  every  day  my  Valentine. 


32  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


VI; 


TO    A    SLEEPING    CHILD. 


I- 

Oh,  'tis  a  touching  thing,  to  make  one  weep, — 
A  tender  infant  with  its  curtain'd  eye, 
Breathing  as  it  would  neither  live  nor  die 
With  that  unchanging  countenance  of  sleep  ! 
As  if  its  silent  dream,  serene  and  deep, 
Had  lin'd  its  slumber  with  a  still  blue  sky. 
So  that  the  passive  cheeks  unconscious  lie 
With  no  more  life  than  roses — just  to  keep 
The  blushes  warm,  and  the  mild,  odorous  breath. 
O  blossom  boy  !  so  calm  is  thy  repose. 
So  sweet  a  compromise  of  life  and  death, 
'Tis  pity  those  fair  buds  should  e'er  unclose 
For  memory  to  stain  their  inward  leaf. 
Tinging  thy  dreams  with  unacquainted  grief. 


SONNETS.  33 


VIII. 


TO    A    SLEEPING    CHILD. 


II. 

Thine  eyelids  slept  so  beauteously,  I  deem'd 
No  eyes  could  wake  so  beautiful  as  they  : 
Thy  rosy  cheeks  in  such  still  slumbers  lay, 
I  lov'd  their  peacefulness,  nor  ever  dream'd 
Of  dimples  ; — for  those  parted  lips  so  seem'd,^ 
I  never  thought  a  smile  could  sweetlier  play, 
Nor  that  so  graceful  life  could  chase  away 
Thy  graceful  death, — till  those  blue  eyes  upbeam'd. 
Now  slumber  lies  in  dimpled  eddies  drown'd, 
And  roses  bloom  more  rosily  for  joy. 
And  odorous  silence  ripens  into  sound. 
And  fingers  move  to  sound. — All-beauteous  boy  ! 
How  thou  dost  waken  into  smiles,  and  prove, 
If  not  more  lovely,  thou  art  more  like  Love  ! 
2* 


34  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


IX. 


The  World  is  with  me,  and  its  many  cares, 

Its  woes — its  wants — the  anxious  hopes  and  fears 

That  wait  on  all  terrestrial  affairs — 

The  shades  of  former  and  of  future  years — 

Foreboding  fancies,  and  prophetic  tears, 

Quelling  a  spirit  that  was  once  elate. 

Heavens  !  what  a  wilderness  the  world  appears. 

Where  Youth,  and  Mirth,  and  Health  are  out  of  date  ! 

But  no — a  laugh  of  innocence  and  joy 

Resounds,  like  music  of  the  fairy  race, 

And,  gladly  turning  from  the  world's  annoy, 

[  gaze  upon  a  little  radiant  face, 

And  bless,  internally,  the  merry  boy 

Who  "  makes  a  son-shine  in  a  shady  place." 


THE    PLEA 


or 


THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES 


1827. 


TO 

CHARLES  LAMB,  ESQ. 


My  dear  Friend, 

I  THANK  my  literary  fortune  that  I  am  not  reduced,  like  many  better 
ivits,  to  barter  dedications,  for  the  hope  or  promise  of  patronage,  with 
!ome  nominally  great  man  ;  but  that  where  true  affection  points,  and  honest 
•espect,  I  am  free  to  gratify  my  head  and  heart  by  a  sincere  inscription. 
\n  intimacy  and  dearness,  worthy  of  a  much  earlier  date  than  our  acquaint- 
ince  can  refer  to,  direct  me  at  once  to  your  name  :  and  with  this  acknow- 
edgment  of  your  ever  kind  feeling  towards  me,  I  desire  to  record  a  re- 
ipect  and  admiration  for  you  as  a  writer,  which  no  one  acquainted  with 
)ur  literature,  save  Elia  himself,  will  think  disproportionate  or  misplaced. 
[f  I  had  not  these  better  reasons  to  govern  me,  I  should  be  guided  to  the 
lame  selection  by  your  intense  yet  critical  relish  for  the  works  of  our  great 
Dramatist,  and  for  that  favorite  play  in  particular  which  has  furnished  the 
mbject  of  my  verses. 

It  is  my  design,  in  the  following  Poem,  to  celebrate,  by  an  allegory,  that 
immortality  which  Shakspeare  has  conferred  on  the  Fairy  mythology  by 
tiis  Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  But  for  him,  those  pretty  children  of  our 
;hildhood  would  leave  barely  their  names  to  our  maturer  years ;  they  be- 
long, as  the  mites  upon  the  plum,  to  the  bloom  of  fancy,  a  thing  generally 
too  frail  and  beautiful  to  withstand  the  rude  handling  of  time  :  but  the 
Poet  has  made  this  most  perishable  part  of  the  mind's  creation  equal  to  the 
most  enduring ;  he  has  so  intertwined  the  Elfins  with  human  sympathies, 
md  linked  them  by  so  many  delightful  associations  with  the  productions 
of  nature,  that  they  aie  as  real  to  the  mind's  eye,  as  their  green  magical 
circles  to  the  outer  sense. 

It  would  have  been  a  pity  for  such  a  race  to  go  extinct,  even  though  they 
were  but  as  the  butterflies  that  hover  about  the  leaves  and  blossoms  of  the 
visible  world. 

I  am. 

My  dkar  Friend,  ' 

Yours  most  truly, 

T.  HOOD. 


4lT/( 


THE   PLEA 


OF 


THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES. 


'TwAS  in  that  mellow  season  of  the  year 

When  the  hot  Sun  singes  the  yellow  leaves 

Till  they  be  gold, — and  with  a  broader  sphere 

The  Moon  looks  down  on  Ceres  and  her  sheaves  j 

When  more  abundantly  the  spider  weaves, 

And  the  cold  wind  breathes  from  a  chillier  clime  ; 

That  forth  I  fared,  on  one  of  those  still  eves, 

Touch'd  with  the  dewy  sadness  of  the  time. 

To  think  how  the  bright  months  had  spent  their  prime, 


n. 


So  that,  wherever  I  address'd  my  way, 

I  seem'd  to  track  the  melancholy  feet 

Of  him  that  is  the  Father  of  Decay, 

And  spoils  at  once  the  sour  weed  and  the  sweet  ;- 

Wherefore  regretfully  I  made  retreat 

To  some  unwasted  regions  of  my  brain, 

Charm'd  with  the  light  of  summer  and  the  heat, 

And  bade  that  bounteous  season  bloom  again, 

And  sprout  fresh  flowers  in  mine  own  domain. 


40  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


III. 


It  was  a  shady  and  sequester'd  scene, 
Like  those  famed  gardens  of  Boccaccio, 
Planted  with  his  own  laurels  evergreen. 
And  roses  that  for  endless  summer  blow  ; 
And  there  were  founting  springs  to  overflow 
Their  marble  basins, — and  cool  green  arcades 
Of  tall  o'erarching  sycamores,  to  throw 
Athwart  the  dappled  path  their  dancing  shades,- 
With  timid  coneys  cropping  the  green  blades. 


IV. 


And  there  were  crystal  pools,  peopled  with  fish, 
Argent  and  gold ;  and  some  of  Tyrian  skin. 
Some  crimson-barr'd  ;  and  ever  at  a  wish 
They  rose  obsequious  till  the  wave  grew  thin 
As  glass  upon  their  backs,  and  then  dived  in, 
Quenching  their  ardent  scales  in  watery  gloom ; 
Whilst  others  with  fresh  hues  row'd  forth  to  win 
My  changeable  regard, — for  so  we  doom 
Things  born  of  thought  to  vanish  or  to  bloom. 


V. 


And  there  were  many  birds  of  many  dyes, 
From  tree  to  tree  still  faring  to  and  fro, 
And  stately  peacocks  with  their  splendid  eyes, 
And  gorgeous  pheasants  with  their  golden  glow, 
Like  Iris  just  bedabbled  in  her  bow, 
Besides  some  vocalists,  without  a  name, 
That  oft  on  fairy  errands  come  and  go. 
With  accents  magical ; — and  all  were  tame, 
And  peckled  at  my  haitd  where'er  I  came. 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  41 


VI. 


And  for  my  sylvan  company,  in  lieu 

Of  Pampinea  with  her  lively  peers, 

Sate  Queen  Titania  with  her  pretty  crew. 

All  in  their  liveries  quaint,  with  elfin  gears, 

For  she  was  gracious  to  my  childish  years, 

And  made  me  free  of  her  enchanted  round ; 

Wherefore  this  dreamy  scene  she  still  endears, 

And  plants  her  court  upon  a  verdant  mound. 

Fenced  with  umbrageous  woods  and  groves  profound. 


VII 


"  Ah  me,"  she  cries,  "  was  ever  moonlight  seen 
So  clear  and  tender  for  our  midnight  trips  ? 
Go  some  one  forth,  and  with  a  trump  convene 
My  lieges  all !" — Away  the  goblin  skips 
A  pace  or  two  apart,  and  deftly  strips 
The  ruddy  skin  from  a  sweet  rose's  cheek. 
Then  blows  the  shuddering  leaf  between  his  lips. 
Making  it  utter  forth  a  shrill  small  shriek. 
Like  a  fray'd  bird  in  the  grey  owlet's  beak. 


Till, 


And  lo !  upon  my  fix'd  delighted  ken 
Appear'd  the  loyal  Fays. — Some  by  degrees 
Crept  from  the  primrose  buds  that  open'd  then. 
And  some  from  bellshap'd  blossoms  like  the  bees, 
Some  from  the  dewy  meads,  and  rushy  leas, 
Flew  up  like  chafers  when  the  rustics  pass  ; 
Some  from  the  rivers,  others  from  tall  trees 
Dropp'd  like  shed  blossoms,  silent  to  the  grass, 
Spirits  and  elfins  small,  of  every  class. 


42  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


IX. 


Peri  and  Pixy,  and  quaint  Puck  the  Antic, 
Brought  Robin  Goodfellow,  that  merry  swain  ; 
And  stealthy  Mab,  queen  of  old  realms  romantic, 
Came  too,  from  distance,  in  her  tiny  wain, 
Fresh  dripping  from  a  cloud — some  bloomy  rain, 
Then  circling  the  bright  Moon,  had  wash'd  her  car. 
And  still  bedew'd  it  with  a  various  stain  : 
Lastly  came  Ariel,  shooting  from  a  star, 
Who  bears  all  fairy  embassies  afar. 


But  Oberon,  that  night  elsewhere  exiled. 

Was  absent,  whether  some  distemper'd  spleen 

Kept  him  and  his  fair  mate  unreconciled, 

Or  warfare  with  the  Gnome  (whose  race  had  been 

Sometime  obnoxious),  kept  him  from  his  queen, 

And  made  her  now  peruse  the  starry  skies 

Prophetical  with  such  an  absent  mien ; 

Howbeit,  the  tears  stole  often  to  her  eyes. 

And  oft  the  Moon  was  incensed  with  her  sighs — 

XI. 

Which  made  the  elves  sport  drearily,  and  soon 
Their  hushing  dances  languish'd  to  a  stand, 
Like  midnight  leaves  when,  as  the  Zephyrs  swoon, 
All  on  their  drooping  stems  they  sink  unfann'd, — 
So  into  silence  droop'd  the  fairy  band, 
To  see  their  empress  dear  so  pale  and  still, 
Crowding  her  softly  round  on  either  hand, 
As  pale  as  frosty  snow-drops,  and  as  chill, 
To  whom  the  sceptred  dame  reveals  her  ilV 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  43 


XII. 


"  Alas,"  quoth  she,  "  ye  know  our  fairy  lives 
Are  leased  upon  the  fickle  faith  of  men  ; 
Not  measured  out  against  fate's  mortal  knives, 
Like  human  gossamers,  we  perish  when 
We  fade,  and  are  forgot  in  worldly  ken, — 
Though  poesy  has  thus  prolong'd  our  date. 
Thanks  be  to  the  sweet  Bard's  auspicious  pen 
That  rescued  us  so  long  ! — howbeit  of  late 
I  feel  some  dark  misgivings  of  our  fate. 


XIII. 


"  And  this  dull  day  my  melancholy  sleep 
Hath  been  so  thronged  with  images  of  wo, 
That  even  now  I  cannot  choose  but  weep 
To  think  this  was  some  sad  prophetic  show 
Of  future  horror  to  befall  us  so, — 
Of  mortal  wreck  and  uttermost  distress, — 
Yea,  our  poor  empire's  fall  and  overthrow, — 
For  this  was  my  long  vision's  dreadful  stress, 
And  when  I  waked  my  trouble  was  not  less. 

XIV. 

"  Whenever  to  the  clouds  I  tried  to  seek, 
Such  leaden  weight  dragg'd  these  Icarian  wings. 
My  faithless  wand  was  wavering  and  weak. 
And  slimy  toads  had  trespass'd  in  our  rings — 
The  birds  refused  to  sing  for  me — all  things 
Disown'd  their  old  allegiance  to  our  spells  ; 
The  rude  bees  prick'd  me  with  their  rebel  stings ; 
And,  when  I  pass'd,  the  valley-lily's  bells 
Rang  out,  methought,  most  melancholy  knells. 


44  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


XV. 


"  And  ever  on  the  faint  and  flagging  air 

A  doleful  spirit  with  a  dreary  note 

Cried  in  my  fearful  ear,     '  Prepare  !  prepare  ! ' 

Which  soon  I  knew  came  from  a  raven's  throat, 

Perch'd  on  a  cyprus  bough  not  far  remote, — 

A  cursed  bird,  too  crafty  to  be  shot. 

That  always  cometh  with  his  soot-black  coat 

To  make  hearts  dreary  : — for  he  is  a  blot 

Upon  the  book  of  life,  as  well  ye  wot ! — 


XVI. 


"  Wherefore  some  while  I  bribed  him  to  be  mute, 

With  bitter  acorns  stuffing  his  foul  maw. 

Which  barely  I  appeased,  when  some  fresh  bruit 

Startled  me  all  aheap ! — and  soon  I  saw 

The  horridest  shape  that  ever  raised  my  awe, — 

A  monstrous  giant,  very  huge  and  tall, 

Such  as  in  elder  times,  devoid  of  law. 

With  wicked  might  grieved  the  primeval  ball, 

And  this  was  sure  the  deadliest  of  them  all ! 


XVII. 


"  Gaunt  was  he  as  a  wolf  of  Languedoc, 
With  bloody  jaws,  and  frost  upon  his  crown ; 
So  from  his  barren  poll  one  hoary  lock 
Over  his  wrinkled  front  fell  far  adown. 
Well  nigh  to  where  his  frosty  brows  did  frown 
Like  jagged  icicles  at  cottage  eves  ; 
And  for  his  coronal  he  wore  some  brown 
And  bristled  ears  gather'd  from  Ceres'  sheaves, 
Entwined  with  certain  sere  and  russet  leaves. 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  45 


xvni. 


"  And  lo  !  upon  a  mast  rear'd  far  aloft, 
He  bore  a  very  bright  and  crescent  blade, 
The  which  he  waved  so  dreadfully,  and  oft, 
In  meditative  spite,  that,  sore  dismay'd, 
I  crept  into  an  acorn-cup  for  shade  ; 
Meanwhile  the  horrid  effigy  went  by  : 
I  trow  his  look  was  dreedful,  for  it  made 
The  trembling  birds  betake  them  to  the  sky, 
For  every  leaf  was  lifted  by  his  sigh. 

XIX. 

"  And  ever  as  he  sigh'd,  his  foggy  breath 
Blurr'd  out  the  landscape  like  a  flight  of  smoke : 
Thence  knew  I  this  was  either  dreary  Death 
Or  Time,  who  leads  all  creatures  to  his  stroke. 
Ah  wretched  me  ! " — Here,  even  as  she  spoke, 
The  melancholy  Shape  came  gliding  in, 
And  lean'd  his  back  against  an  antique  oak, 
Folding  his  wings,  that  were  so  fine  and  thin, 
They  scarce  were  seen  against  the  Dryad's  skin. 

XX. 

Then  what  a  fear  seized  all  tlie  little  rout ! 
Look  how  a  flock  of  panick'd  sheep  will  stare — 
And  huddle  close — and  start — and  wheel  about. 
Watching  the  roaming  mongrel  here  and  there,— 
So  did  that  sudden  Apparition  scare 
All  close  aheap  those  small  affrighted  things  ; 
Nor  sought  they  now  the  safety  of  the  air. 
As  if  some  leaden  spell  withheld  their  wings  ; 
But  who  can  fly  that  ancientest  of  Kings  ? 


46  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


XXI. 


Whom  now  the  Queen,  with  a  forestalling  tear 
And  previous  sigh,  beginneth  to  entreat, 
Bidding  him  spare,  for  love,  her  lieges  dear  : 
"  Alas  ! "  quoth  she,  "  is  there  no  nodding  wheat 
Ripe  for  thy  crooked  weapon,  and  more  meet, — 
Or  wither'd  leaves  to  ravish  from  the  tree, — 
Or  crumbling  battlements  for  thy  defeat  ? 
Think  but  what  vaunting  monuments  there  be 
Builded  in  spite  and  mockery  of  thee. 


XXII. 


"  O  fret  away  the  fabric  walls  of  Fame, 
And  grind  down  marble  Csesars  with  the  dust : 
Make  tombs  inscriptionless — raze  each  high  name, 
And  waste  old  armors  of  renown  with  rust : 
Do  all  of  this,  and  thy  revenge  is  just : 
Make  such  decays  the  trophies  of  thy  prime, 
And  check  Ambition's  overweening  lust. 
That  dares  exterminating  war  with  Time, — 
But  we  are  guiltless  of  that  lofty  crime. 


XXIII. 


"  Frail  feeble  sprites  ! — the  children  of  a  dream  ! 

Leased  on  the  sufferance  of  fickle  men, 

Like  motes  dependent  on  the  sunny  beam, 

Living  but  in  the  sun's  indulgent  ken. 

And  when  that  light  withdraws,  withdrawing  then  ;- 

So  do  we  flutter  in  the  glance  of  youth 

And  fervid  fancy, — and  so  perish  when 

The  eye  of  faith  grows  aged ; — in  sad  truth. 

Feeling  thy  sway,  O  Time !  though  not  thy  tooth  ! 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  47 

XZIV. 

"  Where  be  those  old  divinities  forlorn, 
That  dwelt  in  trees,  or  haunted  in  a  stream  ? 
Alas  !  their  memories  are  dimm'd  and  torn, 
Like  the  remainder  tatters  of  a  dream  : 
So  will  it  fare  with  our  poor  thrones,  I  deem  ; — 
For  us  the  same  dark  trench  Oblivion  delves, 
That  holds  the  wastes  of  every  human  scheme. 
O  spare  us  then, — and  these  our  pretty  elves, 
We  soon,  alas  !  shall  perish  of  ourselves  ! " 

XXV. 

Now  as  she  ended,  with  a  sigh,  to  name 
Those  old  Olympians,  scatter'd  by  the  whirl 
Of  fortune's  giddy  wheel,  and  brought  to  shame, 
Methought  a  scornful  and  malignant  curl 
Show'd  on  the  lips  of  that  malicious  churl, 
To  think  what  noble  havocs  he  had  made  ; 
So  that  I  fear'd  he  all  at  once  would  hurl 
The  harmless  fairies  into  endless  shade, — 
Howbeit  he  stopp'd  awhile  to  whet  his  blade. 

XXVI. 

Pity  it  was  to  hear  the  elfins'  wail 
Rise  up  in  concert  from  their  mingled  dread  ; 
Pity  it  was  to  see  them,  all  so  pale, 
Gaze  on  the  grass  as  for  a  dying  bed  ; — 
But  Puck  was  seated  on  a  spider's  thread. 
That  hung  between  two  branches  of  a  briar, 
And  'gan  to  swing  and  gambol  heels  o'er  head. 
Like  any  Southwark  tumbler  on  a  wire, 
For  him  no  present  grief  could  long  inspire. 


48  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


XXVII. 


Meanwhile  the  Queen  with  many  piteous  drops, 

Falling  like  tiny  sparks  full  fast  and  free, 

Bedews  a  pathway  from  her  throne  ;— and  stops 

Before  the  foot  of  her  arch  enemy. 

And  with  her  little  arms  enfolds  his  knee. 

That  shows  more  gristly  from  that  fair  embrace  ; 

But  she  will  ne'er  depart.     "  Alas  !"  quoth  she, 

"  My  painful  fingers  I  will  here  enlace 

Till  I  have  gain'd  your  pity  for  our  race. 


XXVIII. 


<'  What  have  we  ever  done  to  earn  this  grudge. 
And  hate— (if  not  too  humble  for  thy  hating  ?)— 
Look  o'er  our  labors  and  our  lives,  and  judge 
If  there  be  any  ills  of  our  creating  ; 
For  we  are  very  kindly  creatures,  dating 
With  nature's  charities  still  sweet  and  bland  : — 
O  think  this  murder  worthy  of  debating  !  " — 
Herewith  she  makes  a  signal  with  her  hand, 
To  beckon  some  one  from  the  Fairy  band. 


XXIX. 


Anon  I  saw  one  of  those  elfin  things, 

Clad  all  in  white  like  any  chorister, 

Come  fluttering  forth  on  his  melodious  wings, 

That  made  soft  music  at  each  little  stir. 

But  something  louder  than  a  bee's  demur 

Before  he  lights  upon  a  bunch  of  broom. 

And  thus  'gan  he  with  Saturn  to  confer, — 

And  O  his  voice  was  sweet,  touch'd  with  the  gloom 

Of  that  sad  theme  that  argued  of  his  doom  ! 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  49 

XXX. 

Quoth  he,  "  We  make  all  melodies  our  care, 
That  no  false  discords  may  offend  the  Sun, 
Music's  great  master — tuning  everywhere 
All  pastoral  sounds  and  melodies,  each  one 
Duly  to  place  and  season,  so  that  none 
May  harshly  interfere.     We  rouse  at  morn 
The  shrill  sweet  lark  ;  and  when  the  day  is  done. 
Hush  silent  pauses  for  the  bird  forlorn, 
That  singeth  with  her  breast  against  a  thorn. 

XXXI. 

"  We  gather  in  loud  choirs  the  twittering  race, 
That  make  a  chorus  with  their  single  note  ; 
And  tend  on  new-fledged  birds  in  every  place, 
That  duly  they  may  get  their  tunes  by  rote  ; 
And  oft,  like  echoes,  answering  remote, 
We  hide  in  thickets  from  the  feather'd  throng. 
And  strain  in  rivalship  each  throbbing  throat, 
Singing  in  shrill  responses  all  day  long, 
Whilst  the  glad  truant  listens  to  our  song. 


"  Wherefore,  great  King  of  Years,  as  thou  dost  love 
The  raining  music  from  a  morning  cloud. 
When  vanish'd  larks  are  carolling  above. 
To  wake  Apollo  with  their  pipings  loud  ; — 
If  ever  thou  hast  heard  in  leafy  shroud 
The  sweet  and  plaintive  Sappho  of  the  dell. 
Show  thy  sweet  mercy  on  this  little  crowd. 
And  we  will  muffle  up  the  sheepfold  bell 
Whene'er  thou  listenest  to  Philomel." 
4 


50  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


XXXIIl. 


Then  Saturn  thus  : — "  Sweet  is  the  merry  lark, 
That  carols  in  man's  ear  so  clear  and  strong  ; 
And  youth  must  love  to  listen  in  the  dark 
That  tuneful  elegy  of  Tereus'  wrong  ; 
But  I  have  heard  that  ancient  strain  too  long, 
For  sweet  is  sweet  but  when  a  little  strange, 
And  I  grow  weary  for  some  newer  song  ; 
For  wherefore  had  I  wings,  unless  to  range 
Through  all  things  mutable  from  change  to  change  ? 

XXXIV. 

"  But  wouldst  thou  hear  the  melodies  of  Time, 

Listen  when  sleep  and  drowsy  darkness  roll 

Over  hush'd  cities,  and  the  midnight  chime 

Sounds  from  their  hundred  clocks,  and  deep  bells  toll 

Like  a  last  knell  over  the  dead  world's  soul, 

Saying,  Time  shall  be  final  of  all  things, 

Whose  late,  last  voice  must  elegise  the  whole, — 

O  then  I  clap  aloft  my  brave  broad  wings, 

And  make  the  wide  air  tremble  while  it  rings  !  " 

XXXV. 

Then  next  a  fair  Eve-Fay  made  meek  address, 
Saying,  "  We  be  the  handmaids  of  the  Spring, 
In  sign  whereof,  May,  the  quaint  broideress, 
Hath  wrought  her  samplers  on  our  gauzy  wing. 
We  tend  upon  buds'  birth  and  blossoming. 
And  count  the  leafy  tributes  that  they  owe — 
As,  so  much  to  the  earth — so  much  to  fling 
In  showers  to  the  brook — so  much  to  go 
In  whirlwinds  to  the  clouds  that  made  them  grow. 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  51 

XXXVI. 

"  The  pastoral  cowslips  are  our  little  pets, 
And  daisy  stars,  whose  firmament  is  green  ; 
Pansies,  and  those  veil'd  nuns,  meek  violets, 
Sighing  to  that  warm  world  from  which  they  screen  ; 
And  golden  daffodils,  pluck'd  for  May's  Queen ; 
And  lonely  harebells,  quaking  on  the  heath  ; 
And  Hyacinth,  long  since  a  fair  youth  seen, 
Whose  tuneful  voice,  turn'd  fragrance  in  his  breath, 
Kiss'd  by  sad  Zephyr,  guilty  of  his  death. 

XXX  vn. 

"  The  widow'd  primrose  weeping  to  the  moon, 
And  saffron  crocus  in  whose  chalice  bright 
A  cool  libation  hoarded  for  the  noon 
Is  kept — and  she  that  purifies  the  light, 
The  virgin  lily,  faithful  to  her  white, 
Whereon  Eve  wept  in  Eden  for  her  shame  ; 
And  the  most  dainty  rose,  Aurora's  spright. 
Our  every  godchild;  by  whatever  name — 
Spare  us  our  lives,  for  we  did  nurse  the  same  !  " 

XXXVUI. 

Then  that  old  Mower  stamp'd  his  heel,  and  struck 
His  hurtful  scythe  against  the  harmless  ground. 
Saying,  "  Ye  foolish  imps,  when  am  I  stuck 
With  gaudy  buds,  or  like  a  wooer  crown'd 
With  flow'ry  cliaplets,  save  when  they  are  found 
Wither'd  ? — Whenever  have  I  pluck'd  a  rose. 
Except  to  scatter  its  vain  leaves  around  ? 
For  so  all  gloss  of  beauty  I  oppose. 
And  bring  decay  on  every  flow'r  that  blows. 


52  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


XXXIX. 

"  Or  when  am  I  so  wroth  as  when  I  view 

The  wanton  pride  of  Summer  ; — ^how  she  decks 

The  birth-day  world  with  blossoms  ever  new, 

As  if  Time  had  not  lived,  and  heap'd  great  wrecks 

Of  years  on  years  ? — O  then  I  bravely  vex 

And  catch  the  gay  Months  in  their  gaudy  plight, 

And  slay  them  Mdth  the  wreaths  about  their  necks, 

Like  foolish  heifers  in  the  holy  rite, 

And  raise  great  trophies  to  my  ancient  might." 

Then  saith  another,  "  We  are  kindly  things, 
And  like  her  offspring  nestle  with  the  dove, — 
Witness  these  hearts  embroider'd  on  our  wings, 
To  show  our  constant  patronage  of  love  : — 
We  sit  at  even,  in  sweet  bow'rs  above 
Lovers,  and  shake  I'ich  odors  on  the  air. 
To  mingle  with  their  sighs  -,  and  still  remove 
The  startling  owl,  and  bid  the  bat  forbear 
Their  privacy,  and  haunt  some  other  where. 

XLI. 

"  And  we  are  near  the  mother  when  she  sits 

Beside  the  infant  in  its  wicker  bed  ; 

And  we  are  in  the  fairy  scene  that  flits 

Across  its  tender  brain  :  sweet  dreams  we  shed. 

And  whilst  the  tender  little  soul  is  fled 

Away,  to  sport  with  our  young  elves,  the  while 

We  touch  the  dimpled  cheek  with  roses  red, 

And  tickle  the  soft  lips  until  they  smile. 

So  that  their  careful  parents  they  beguile. 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  53 

XLII. 

"  O  then,  if  ever  thou  hast  breath'd  a  vow 
At  Love's  dear  portal,  or  at  pale  moon-rise 
Crush'd  the  dear  curl  on  a  regardful  brow 
That  did  not  frown  thee  from  thy  honey  prize — 
If  ever  thy  sweet  son  sat  on  thy  thighs. 
And  wooed  thee  from  thy  careful  thoughts  within 
To  watch  the  harmless  beauty  of  his  eyes. 
Or  glad  thy  fingers  on  his  smooth  soft  skin. 
For  Love's  dear  sake,  let  us  thy  pity  win  ! " 

XLIII 

Then  Saturn  fiercely  thus  : — "  What  joy  have  I 
In  tender  babes,  that  have  devour'd  mine  own. 
Whenever  to  the  light  I  heard  them  cry, 
Till  foolish  Rhea  cheated  me  with  stone  ? 
Whereon,  till  now,  is*  my  great  hunger  shown, 
In  monstrous  dints  of  my  enormous  tooth  ; 
And, — but  the  peopled  world  is  too  full  grown 
For  hunger's  edge, — I  would  consume  all  youth 
At  one  great  meal,  without  delay  or  ruth  ! 

XLIV. 

"  For  I  am  well  nigh  craz'd  and  wild  to  hear 
How  boastful  fathers  taunt  me  with  their  breed, 
Saying,  We  shall  not  die  nor  disappear. 
But  in  these  other  selves,  ourselves  succeed, 
Ev'n  as  ripe  flowers  pass  into  their  seed 
Only  to  be  renew 'd  from  prime  to  prime. 
All  of  which  boastings  I  am  forced  to  read, 
Besides  a  thousand  challenges  to  Time 
Which  bragging  lovers  have  compil'd  in  rhyme. 


54  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


XLV. 


"  Wherefore,  when  they  are  sweetly  met  o'  nights, 
There  will  I  steal,  and  with  my  hurried  hand 
Startle  them  suddenly  from  their  delights 
Before  the  next  encounter  hath  been  plann'd. 
Ravishing  hours  in  little  minutes  spann'd  ; 
But  when  they  say  farewell,  and  grieve  apart, 
Then  like  a  leaden  statue  I  will  stand. 
Meanwhile  their  many  tears  encrust  my  dart. 
And  with  a  ragged  edge  cut  heart  from  heart." 


XLVI. 


Then  next  a  merry  Woodsman,  clad  in  green, 
Stept  vanward  from  his  mates,  that  idly  stood 
Each  at  his  proper  ease,  as  they  had  been 
Nursed  in  the  liberty  of  old  Sherwood, 
And  wore  the  livery  of  Robin  Hood, 
Who  wont  in  forest  shades  to  dine  and  sup, — 
So  came  this  chief  right  frankly,  and  made  good 
His  haunch  against  his  axe,  and  thus  spoke  up. 
Doffing  his  cap,  which  was  an  acorn's  cup  : — 


XLVII. 


"  We  be  small  foresters  and  gay,  who  tend 
On  trees,  and  all  their  furniture  of  green. 
Training  the  young  boughs  airily  to  bend. 
And  show  blue  snatches  of  the  sky  between  ; 
Or  knit  more  close  intricacies,  to  screen 
Birds'  crafty  dwellings  as  may  hide  them  best. 
But  most  the  timid  blackbird's — she,  that  seen, 
Will  bear  black  poisonous  berries  to  her  nest. 
Lest  man  should  cage  the  darlings  of  her  breast. 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  55 


XLVIII. 


"  We  bend  each  tree  in  proper  attitude, 
And  founting  willows  train  in  silvery  falls  ; 
We  frame  all  shady  roofs  and  arches  rude, 
And  verdant  aisles  leading  to  Dryads'  halls. 
Or  deep  recesses  where  the  Echo  calls  ; — 
We  shape  all  plumy  trees  against  the  sky, 
And  carve  tall  elms'  Corinthian  capitals, — 
When  sometimes,  as  our  tiny  hatchets  ply, 
Men  say,  the  tapping  woodpecker  is  nigh. 


"  Sometimes  we  scoop  the  squirrel's  hollow  cell, 

And  sometimes  carve  quaint  letters  on  trees'  rind, 

That  haply  some  lone  musing  wight  may  spell 

Dainty  Aminta, — Gentle  Rosalind, — 

Or  chastest  Laura, — sweetly  call'd  to  mind 

In  sylvan  solitudes,  ere  he  lies  down  ; — 

And  sometimes  we  enrich  grey  stems,  with  twined 

And  vagrant  ivy, — or  rich  moss,  whose  brown 

Bums  into  gold  as  the  warm  sun  goes  down. 


"  And,  lastly,  for  mirth's  sake  and  Christmas  cheer, 
We  bear  the  seedling  berries,  for  increase, 
To  graft  the  Druid  oaks,  from  year  to  year. 
Careful  that  mistletoe  may  never  cease  ; — 
Wherefore,  if  thou  dost  prize  the  shady  peace 
Of  sombre  forests,  or  to  see  light  break 
Through  sylvan  cloisters,  and  in  spring  release 
Thy  spirit  amongst  leaves  from  careful  ake. 
Spare  us  our  lives  for  the  Green  Dryad's  sake." 


5a  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


LI. 

Then  Saturn,  with  a  frown  : — "  Go  forth,  and  fell 

Oak  for  your  coffins,  and  thenceforth  lay  by 

Your  axes  for  the  rust,  and  bid  farewell 

To  all  sweet  birds,  and  the  blue  peeps  of  sky 

Through  tangled  branches,  for  ye  shall  not  spy 

The  next  green  generation  of  the  ti'ee ; 

But  hence  with  the  dead  leaves,  whene'er  they  fly, — 

Which  in  the  bleak  air  I  would  rather  see. 

Than  fliohts  of  the  most  tuneful  birds  that  be. 

uri. 

"  For  I  dislike  all  prime,  and  verdant  pets. 

Ivy  except,  that  on  the  aged  wall 

Preys  with  its  worm-like  roots,  and  daily  frets 

The  crumbled  tower  it  seems  to  league  withal, 

King-like,  worn  down  by  its  own  coronal  : — 

Neither  in  forest  haunts  love  I  to  won, 

Before  the  golden  plumage  'gins  to  fall. 

And  leaves  the  brown  bleak  limbs  with  iew  leaves  on, 

Or  bare — like  Nature  in  her  skeleton. 

LIII. 

"  For  then  sit  I  amongst  the  crooked  boughs. 
Wooing  dull  Memory  with  kindred  sighs  ; 
And  there  in  rustling  nuptials  we  espouse, 
Smit  by  the  sadness  in  each  other's  eyes  ; — 
But  Hope  must  have  green  bowers  and  blue  skies, 
And  must  be  courted  with  the  gauds  of  spring  ; 
Whilst  Youth  leans  god-like  on  her  lap,  and  cries, 
What  shall  we  always  do,  but  love  and  sing  ? — 
And  Time  is  reckon'd  a  discarded  thing." 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  57 


LIV. 


Here  in  my  dream  it  made  me  fret  to  see 
How  Puck,  the  antic,  all  this  dreary  while 
Had  blithely  jested  with  calamity, 
With  mistim'd  mirth  mocking  the  doleful  style 
Of  his  sad  comrades,  till  it  raised  my  bile 
To  see  him  so  reflect  their  grief  aside. 
Turning  their  solemn  looks  to  half  a  smile — 
Like  a  straight  stick  shown  crooked  in  the  tide  ; — 
But  soon  a  novel  advocate  I  spied. 

LV. 

Quoth  he — "  We  teach  all  natures  to  fulfil 

Their  fore-appointed  crafts,  and  instincts  meet, — 

The  bee's  sweet  alchemy, — the  spider's  skill, — 

The  pismire's  care  to  garner  up  his  wheat, — 

And  rustic  masonry  to  swallows  fleet, — 

The  lapwing's  cunning  to  preserve  her  nest, — 

But  most,  that  lesser  pelican,  the  sweet 

And  shrilly  ruddock,  with  its  bleeding  breast, 

Its  tender  pity  of  poor  babes  distrest. 

LVI. 

"  Sometimes  we  cast  our  shapes,  and  in  sleek  skins 
Delve  with  the  timid  mole,  that  aptly  delves 
From  our  example  ;  so  the  spider  spins, 
And  eke  the  silk-worm,  pattern'd  by  ourselves : 
Sometimes  we  travail  on  the  summer  shelves 
Of  early  bees,  and  busy  toils  commence, 
Watch'd  of  wise  men,  that  know  not  we  are  elves, 
But  gaze  and  marvel  at  our  stretch  of  sense. 
And  praise  our  human-like  intelligence. 
4* 


58  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


LVII. 


"  Wherefore,  by  thy  delight  in  that  old  tale, 
And  plaintive  dirges  the  late  robins  sing, 
What  time  the  leaves  are  scatter'd  by  the  gale. 
Mindful  of  that  old  forest  burying  ; — 
As  thou  dost  love  to  watch  each  tiny  thing, 
For  whom  our  craft  most  curiously  contrives, 
If  thou  hast  caught  a  bee  upon  the  wing, 
To  take  his  honey-bag, — spare  us  our  lives, 
And  we  will  pay  the  ransom  in  full  hives." 


LVIII. 


"  Now  by  my  glass,"  quoth  Time,  "  ye  do  offend 
In  teaching  the  brown  bees  that  careful  lore, 
And  frugal  ants,  whose  millions  would  have  end, 
But  they  lay  up  for  need  a  timely  store. 
And  travail  with  the  seasons  evermore  ; 
Whereas  Great  Mammoth  long  hath  pass'd  away, 
And  none  but  I  can  tell  what  hide  he  wore  ; 
Whilst  purblind  men,  the  creatures  of  a  day, 
In  riddling  wonder  his  great  bones  survey." 


LIX. 


Then  came  an  elf,  right  beauteous  to  behold, 
Whose  coat  was  like  a  brooklet  that  the  sun 
Hath  all  embroider'd  with  its  crooked  gold, 
It  was  so  quaintly  wrought,  and  overrun 
With  spangled  traceries, — most  meet  for  one 
That  was  a  warden  of  the  pearly  streams ; — 
And  as  he  stept  out  of  the  shadows  dun. 
His  jewels  sparkled  in  the  pale  moon's  gleams, 
And  shot  into  the  air  their  pointed  beams. 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  59 

Quoth  he, — "  We  bear  the  gold  and  silver  keys 

Of  bubbling  springs  and  fountains,  that  below 

Course  thro'  the  veiny  earth, — which  when  they  freeze 

Into  hard  chiysolites,  we  bid  to  flow, 

Creeping  like  subtle  snakes,  when,  as  they  go,  , 

We  guide  their  windings  to  melodious  falls. 

At  whose  soft  murmurings,  so  sweet  and  low, 

Poets  have  tun'd  their  smoothest  madrigals, 

To  sing  to  ladies  in  their  banquet  halls. 

LXI. 

"  And  when  the  hot  sun  with  his  steadfast  heat 

Parches  the  river  god, — whose  dusty  urn 

Drips  miserly,  till  soon  his  crystal  feet 

Against  his  pebbly  floor  wax  faint  and  burn. 

And  languid  fish,  unpois'd,  grow  sick  and  yearn, — . 

Then  scoop  we  hollows  in  some  sandy  nook, 

And  little  channels  dig,  wherein  we  turn 

The  thread- worn  rivulet,  that  all  forsook 

The  Naiad-lily,  pining  for  her  brook. 

LXII. 

"  Wherefore,  by  thy  delight  in  cool  green  meads. 

With  living  sapphires  daintily  inlaid, — 

In  all  soft  songs  of  waters  and  their  reeds, — 

And  all  reflections  in  a  streamlet  made, 

Haply  of  thy  own  love,  that,  disarray'd, 

Kills  the  fair  lily  with  a  livelier  white, — 

By  silver  trouts  upspringing  from  green  shade, 

And  winking  stars  reduplicate  at  night. 

Spare  us,  poor  ministers  to  such  delight." 


60  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


LXIII. 


Howbeit  his  pleading  and  his  gentle  looks 

Mov'd  not  the  spiteful  Shade  : — Quoth  he,  "  Your  taste 

Shoots  wide  of  mine,  for  I  despise  the  brooks 

And  slavish  rivulets  that  run  to  waste 

In  noontide  sweats,  or,  like  poor  vassals,  haste 

To  swell  the  vast  dominion  of  the  sea. 

In  whose  great  presence  I  am  held  disgrac'd, 

And  neighbor'd  with  a  king  that  rivals  me 

In  ancient  might  and  hoary  majesty. 


I.X1V. 


"  Whereas  I  rul'd  in  Chaos,  and  still  keep 
The  awful  secrets  of  that  ancient  dearth. 
Before  the  briny  fountains  of  the  deep 
Brimm'd  up  the  hollow  cavities  of  earth  ; — 
I  saw  each  trickling  Sea-God  at  his  birth, 
Each  pearly  Naiad  with  her  oozy  locks, 
And  infant  Titans  of  enormous  girth. 
Whose  huge  young  feet  yet  stumbled  on  the  rocks, 
Stunning  the  early  world  with  frequent  shocks. 


IXV. 


*'  Where  now  is  Titan,  with  his  cumbrous  brood, 

That  scar'd  the  world  ? — By  this  sharp  scythe  they  fell, 

And  half  the  sky  was  curdled  with  their  blood  : 

So  have  all  primal  giants  sigh'd  farewell. 

No  Wardens  now  by  sedgy  fountains  dwell. 

Nor  pearly  Naiads.     All  their  days  are  done 

That  strove  with  Time,  untimely,  to  excel ; 

Wherefore  I  raz'd  their  progenies,  and  none 

But  my  great  shadow  intercepts  the  sun  ! " 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  61 

LXVI. 

Then  saith  the  timid  Fay — "  Oh,  mighty  Time  ! 
Well  hast  thou  wrought  the  cruel  Titans'  fall, 
For  they  were  stain'd  with  many  a  bloody  crime  : 
Great  giants  work  great  wrongs, — but  we  are  small, 
For  love  goes  lowly ;  but  Oppression's  tall, 
And  with  surpassing  strides  goes  foremost  still 
Where  love  indeed  can  hardly  reach  at  all  ; 
Like  a  poor  dwarf  o'erburthen'd  with  good  will, 
That  labors  to  efface  the  tracks  of  ill. — 

LXVII. 

"  Man  even  strives  with  Man,  but  we  eschew 

The  guilty  feud,  and  all  fierce  strifes  abhor  j 

Nay,  we  are  gentle  as  sweet  heaven's  dew. 

Beside  the  red  and  horrid  drops  of  war, 

Weeping  the  cruel  hates  men  battle  for, 

Which  worldly  bosoms  nourish  in  our  spite  : 

For  in  the  gentle  breast  we  ne'er  withdraw, 

But  only  when  all  love  hath  taken  flight. 

And  youth's  warm  gracious  heart  is  harden'd  quite.    ■ 

Lxvni. 

"  So  are  our  gentle  natures  intertwin'd 
With  sweet  humanities,  and  closely  knit 
In  kindly  sympathy  with  human  kind. 
Witness  how  we  befriend,  with  elfin  wit, 
All  hopeless  maids  and  lovers, — nor  omit 
Magical  succors  unto  hearts  forlorn  : — 
We  charm  man's  life,  and  do  not  perish  it ; — 
So  judge  us  by  the  helps  we  show'd  this  morn. 
To  one  who  held  his  wretched  days  in  scorn. 


62  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


LXIX. 

"  'Twas  nigh  sweet  Amwell  ; — for  the  Queen  had  task'd 

Our  skill  to-day  amidst  the  silver  Lea, 

Whereon  the  noontide  sun  had  not  yet  bask'd  ; 

Wherefore  some  patient  man  we  thought  to  see, 

Planted  in  moss-grown  rushes  to  the  knee, 

Beside  the  cloudy  margin  cold  and  dim  ; — 

Howbeit  no  patient  fisherman  was  he 

That  cast  his  sudden  shadow  from  the  brim, 

Making  us  leave  our  toils  to  gaze  on  him. 

xsx.  • 

"  His  face  was  ashy  pale,  and  leaden  care 
Had  sunk  the  levell'd  arches  of  his  brow. 
Once  bridges  for  his  joyous  thoughts  to  fare 
Over  those  melancholy  springs  and  slow. 
That  from  his  piteous  eyes  began  to  flow. 
And  fell  anon  into  the  chilly  stream  ; 
Which,  as  his  mimick'd  image  show'd  below. 
Wrinkled  his  face  with  many  a  needless  seam, 
Making  grief  sadder  in  its  own  esteem. 

"  And  lo !  upon  the  air  we  saw  him  stretch 
His  passionate  arms  ;  and,  in  a  wayward  strain. 
He  'gan  to  elegize  that  fellow  wretch 
That  with  mute  gestures  answer'd  him  again. 
Saying,  '  Poor  slave,  how  long  wilt  thou  remain 
Life's  sad  weak  captive  in  a  prison  strong. 
Hoping  with  tears  to  rust  away  thy  chain. 
In  bitter  servitude  to  worldly  wrong  ? — 
Thou  wear'st  that  mortal  livery  too  long  !' 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  63 


LXXII. 


"  This,  with  more  spleenful  speeches  and  some  tears, 
When  he  had  spent  upon  the  imaged  wave, 
Speedily  I  eonven'd  my  elfin  peers 
Under  the  lily-cups,  that  we  might  save 
This  woful  mortal  from  a  wilful  grave 
By  shrewd  diversions  of  his  mind's  regret. 
Seeing  he  was  mere  melancholy's  slave. 
That  sank  wherever  a  dark  cloud  he  met. 
And  straight  was  tangled  in  her  secret  net. 


LXXIII. 


"  Therefore,  as  still  he  watch'd  the  water's  flow, 
Daintily  we  transform'd,  and  with  bright  fins 
Came  glancing  through  the  gloom  ;  some  from  below 
Rose  like  dim  fancies  when  a  dream  begins, 
Snatching  the  light  upon  their  purple  skins  ; 
Then  under  the  broad  leaves  made  slow  retire 
One  like  a  golden  galley  bravely  wins 
Its  radiant  course, — another  glows  like  fire, — 
Making  that  wayward  man  our  pranks  admire. 


LXXIV. 


"  And  so  he  banish'd  thought,  and  quite  forgot 

All  contemplation  of  that  wretched  face ; 

And  so  we  wil'd  him  from  that  lonely  spot 

Along  the  river's  brink :  till,  by  heaven's  grace. 

He  met  a  gentle  haunter  of  the  place, 

Full  of  sweet  wisdom  gather'd  from  the  brooks, 

Who  there  discuss'd  his  melancholy  case 

With  wholesome  texts  learn'd  from  kind  nature's  books, 

Meanwhile  he  newly  trinnn'd  his  lines  and  hooks." 


64  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


LXXV. 


Herewith  the  Fairy  ceased.     Quoth  Ariel  now- 
"  Let  me  remember  how  I  sav'd  a  man, 
Whose  fatal  noose  was  fasten'd  on  a  bough, 
Intended  to  abridge  his  sad  life's  span  ; 
For  haply  I  was  by  when  he  began 
His  stern  soliloquy  in  life's  dispraise, 
And  overheard  his  melancholy  plan, 
How  he  had  made  a  vow  to  end  his  days, 
And  therefore  follow'd  him  in  all  his  ways. 


LXXVI. 


"  Through  brake  and  tangled  copse,  for  much  he  loath'd 

All  populous  haunts,  and  roam'd  in  forests  rude. 

To  hide  himself  from  man.     But  I  had  cloth'd 

My  delicate  limbs  with  plumes,  and  still  pursued. 

Where  only  foxes  and  wild  cats  intrude, 

Till  we  were  come  beside  an  ancient  tree 

Late  blasted  by  a  storm.     Here  he  renew'd 

His  loud  complaints, — choosing  that  spot  to  be 

The  scene  of  his  last  horrid  tragedy. 


LXXVII. 


"  It  was  a  wild  and  melancholy  glen, 
Made  gloomy  by  tall  firs  and  cypress  dark. 
Whose  roots,  like  any  bones  of  buried  men, 
Push'd  through  the  rotten  sod  for  fear's  remark  ; 
A  hundred  horrid  stems,  jagged  and  stark, 
Wrestled  with  crooked  arms  in  hideous  fray, 
Besides  sleek  ashes  with  their  dappled  bark, 
Like  crafty  serpents  climbing  for  a  prey. 
With  many  blasted  oaks  moss-grown  and  grey. 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  65 


LXXVIII. 


"But  here  upon  his  final  desperate  clause 
Suddenly  I  pronoune'd  so  sweet  a  strain, 
Like  a  pang'd  nightingale,  it  made  him  pause. 
Till  half  the  frenzy  of  his  grief  was  slain, 
The  sad  remainder  oozing  from  his  brain 
In  timely  ecstasies  of  healing  tears. 
Which  through  his  ardent  eyes  began  to  drain ; — 
Meanwhile  the  deadly  Fates  unclos'd  their  shears  : 
So  pity  me  and  all  my  fated  peers  ! " 


L.XXIX. 


Thus  Ariel  ended,  and  was  some  time  hush'd  : 

When  with  the  hoary  shape  a  fresh  tongue  pleads, 

And  red  as  rose  the  gentle  Fairy  blush'd 

To  read  the  record  of  her  own  good  deeds  : — 

"  It  chanc'd,"  quoth  she,  "  in  seeking  through  the  meads 

For  honied  cowslips,  sweetest  in  the  morn, 

Whilst  yet  the  buds  were  hung  with  dewy  beads, 

And  Eciio  answer'd  to  the  huntsman's  horn. 

We  found  a  babe  left  in  the  swarths  forlorn.  * 


LXXX. 


'<  A  little,  sorrowful,  deserted  thing, 
Begot  of  love,  and  yet  no  love  begetting  ; 
Guiltless  of  shame,  and  yet  for  shame  to  wring  ; 
And  too  soon  banish'd  from  a  mother's  petting, 
To  churlish  nurture  and  the  wide  world's  fretting. 
For  alien  pity  and  unnatural  care  ; — 
Alas  !  to  see  how  the  cold  dew  kept  wetting 
His  childish  coats,  and  dabbled  all  his  hair, 
Like  gossamers  across  his  forehead  fair. 


65  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


LXXXI. 


"  His  pretty  pouting  mouth,  witless  of  speech, 
Lay  half-way  open  like  a  rose-lipp'd  shell ; 
And  his  young  cheek  was  softer  than  a  peach. 
Whereon  his  tears,  for  roundness,  could  not  dwell. 
But  quickly  roll'd  themselves  to  pearls,  and  fell, 
Some  on  the  grass,  and  some  against  his  hand, 
Or  haply  wander'd  to  the  dimpled  well, 
Which  love  beside  his  mouth  had  sweetly  plann'd, 
Yet  not  for  tears,  but  mirth  and  smilings  bland. 


LXXXII. 


"  Pity  it  was  to  see  those  frequent  tears 
Falling  regardless  from  his  friendless  eyes  ; 
There  was  such  beauty  in  those  twin  blue  spheres, 
As  any  mother's  heart  might  leap  to  prize  ; 
Blue  were  they,  like  the  zenith  of  the  skies 
Soften'd  betwixt  two  clouds,  both  clear  and  mild  ; — 
Just  touch'd  with  thought,  and  yet  not  over  wise, 
They  show'd  the  gentle  spirit  of  a  child. 
Not  yet  by  care  or  any  craft  defil'd. 


LXXXIII. 


**  Pity  it  was  to  see  the  ardent  sun 
Scorching  his  helpless  limbs — it  shone  so  warm  ; 
For  kindly  shade  or  shelter  he  had  none. 
Nor  mother's  gentle  breast,  come  fair  or  storm. 
Meanwhile  I  bade  my  pitying  mates  transform 
Like  grasshoppers,  and  then,  with  shrilly  cries, 
All  round  the  infant  noisily  we  swarm, 
Haply  some  passing  rustic  to  advise — 
Whilst  providential  Heav'n  our  care  espies, 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  67 

LXXXIV. 

"  And  sends  full  soon  a  tender-hearted  hind, 
Who,  wond'ring  at  our  loud  unusual  note. 
Strays  curiously  aside,  and  so  doth  find 
The  orphan  child  laid  in  the  grass  remote, 
And  laps  the  foundling  in  his  russet  coat, 
Who  thence  was  nurtur'd  in  his  kindly  cot : — • 
But  how  he  prosper'd  let  proud  London  quote, 
How  wise,  how  rich,  and  how  renown'd  he  got, 
And  chief  of  all  her  citizens,  I  wot. 


LXXXV. 


"  Witness  his  goodly  vessels  on  the  Thames, 
Whose  holds  were  fraught  with  costly  merchandize,- 
Jewels  from  Ind,  and  pearls  for  courtly  dames. 
And  gorgeous  silks  that  Samarcand  supplies  : 
Witness  that  Royal  Bourse  he  bade  arise, 
The  mart  of  merchants  from  the  East  and  West ; 
Whose  slender  summit,  pointing  to  the  skies, 
Still  bears,  in  token  of  his  grateful  breast. 
The  tender  grasshopper,  his  chosen  crest — 


LXXXVl 


"  The  tender  grasshopper,  his  chosen  crest. 

That  all  the  summer,  with  a  tuneful  wing. 

Makes  merry  chirpings  in  its  grassy  nest. 

Inspirited  with  dew  to  leap  and  sing : — 

So  let  us  also  live,  eternal  King ! 

Partakers  of  the  green  and  pleasant  earth  : — 

Pity  it  is  to  slay  the  meanest  thing, 

That,  like  a  mote,  shines  in  the  smile  of  mirth 

Enough  there  is  of  joy's  decrease  and  deartli ! 


68  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


LXXXVll. 


"  Enough  of  pleasure,  and  delight,  and  heauty, 

Perish'd  and  gone,  and  hasting  to  decay  ; — 

Enough  to  sadden  even  thee,  whose  duty 

Or  spite  it  is  to  havoc  and  to  slay  : 

Too  many  a  lovely  race  raz'd  quite  away, 

Hath  left  large  gaps  in  life  and  human  loving  : — 

Here  then  begin  thy  cruel  war  to  stay, 

And  spare  fresh  sighs,  and  tears,  and  groans,  reproving 

Thy  desolating  hand  for  our  removing." 


liXXXVIII. 


Now  here  I  heard  a  shrill  and  sudden  cry. 

And,  looking  up,  I  saw  the  antic  Puck 

Grappling  with  Time,  who  clutch'd  him  like  a  fly, 

Victim  of  his  own  sport, — the  jester's  luck  ! 

He,  whilst  his  fellows  griev'd,  poor  wight,  had  stuck 

His  freakish  gauds  upon  the  Ancient's  brow. 

And  now  his  ear,  and  now  his  beard,  would  pluck  ; 

Whereas  the  angry  churl  had  snatch'd  him  now, 

Crying,  "  Thou  impish  mischief,  who  art  thou  ?" 


LXXXIX. 


"  Alas  !"  quoth  Puck,  "  a  little  random  elf, 
Born  in  the  sport  of  nature,  like  a  weed. 
For  simple  sweet  enjoyment  of  myself, 
But  for  no  other  purpose,  worth,  or  need ; 
And  yet  withal  of  a  most  happy  breed  ; — 
And  there  is  Robin  Goodfellow  besides. 
My  partner  dear  in  many  a  prankish  deed 
To  make  dame  Laughter  hold  her  jolly  sides, 
Like  merry  mummers  twain  on  holy  tides. 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  69 


xc. 


"  'Tis  we  that  bob  the  angler's  idle  cork, 

Till  e'en  the  patient  man  breathes  half  a  curse  ; 

We  steal  the  morsel  from  the  gossip's  fork, 

And  curdling  looks  with  secret  straws  disperse, 

Or  stop  the  sneezing  chanter  at  mid  verse  : 

And  when  an  infant's  beauty  prospers  ill. 

We  change,  some  mothers  say,  the  child  at  nurse  ; 

But  any  graver  purpose  to  fulfil, 

We  have  not  wit  enough,  and  scarce  the  will. 


XCI. 


"  We  never  let  the  canker  melancholy 
To  gather  on  our  faces  like  a  rust, 
But  gloss  our  features  with  some  change  of  folly, 
Taking  life's  fabled  miseries  on  trust. 
But  only  sorrowing  when  sorrow  must : 
"We  ruminate  no  sage's  solemn  cud, 
But  own  ourselves  a  pinch  of  lively  dust 
To  frisk  upon  a  wind, — whereas  the  flood 
Of  tears  would  turn  us  into  heavy  mud. 


XCII. 


"  Beshrew  those  sad  interpreters  of  nature. 

Who  gloze  her  lively  universal  law, 

As  if  she  had  not  form'd  our  cheerful  feature 

To  be  so  tickled  with  the  slightest  straw  ! 

So  let  them  vex  their  mumping  mouths,  and  draw 

The  corners  downward,  like  a  wat'ry  moon. 

And  deal  in  gusty  sighs  and  rainy  flaw — 

We  will  not  woo  foul  weather  all  too  soon, 

Or  nurse  November  on  the  lap  of  June. 


70  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


XCIII. 


"  For  ours  are  winging  sprites,  like  any  bird, 
That  shun  all  stagnant  settlements  of  grief; 
And  even  in  our  rest  our  hearts  are  stirr'd, 
Like  insects  settled  on  a  dancing  leaf: — 
This  is  our  small  philosophy  in  brief, 
Which  thus  to  teach  hath  set  me  all  agape  : 
But  dost  thou  relish  it  ?     O  hoary  chief! 
Unclasp  thy  crooked  fingers  from  my  nape, 
And  I  will  show  thee  many  a  pleasant  scrape." 

XCIV. 

Then  Saturn  thus  : — shaking  his  crooked  blade 
O'erhead,  which  made  aloft  a  lightning  flash 
In  all  the  fairies'  eyes,  dismally  fray'd  ! 
His  ensuing  voice  came  like  the  thunder  crash — 
Meanwhile  the  bolt  shatters  some  pine  or  ash — 
"  Thou  feeble,  wanton,  foolish,  fickle  thing  ! 
Whom  naught  can  frighten,  sadden,  or  abash, — 
To  hope  my  solemn  countenance  to  wring 
To  idiot  smiles  ! — but  I  will  prune  thy  wing  ! 

xcv. 

"  Lo !  this  most  awful  handle  of  my  scythe 
Stood  once  a  May-pole,  with  a  flowery  crown. 
Which  rustics  danc'd  around,  and  maidens  blithe, 
To  wanton  pipings: — but  I  pluck'd  itdown. 
And  robed  the  May  Queen  in  a  churchyard  gown, 
Turning  her  buds  to  rosemary  and  rue  ; 
And  all  their  merry  minstrelsy  did  drown. 
And  laid  each  lusty  leaper  in  the  dew  ; — 
So  thou  shall  fare — and  every  jovial  crew  ! " 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  71 

XCVI. 

Here  he  lets  go  the  struggling  imp,  to  clutch 
His  mortal  engine  with  each  grisly  hand, 
Which  frights  the  elfin  progeny  so  much, 
They  huddle  in  a  heap,  and  ti'embling  stand 
All  round  Titania,  like  the  queen  bee's  band. 
With  sighs  and  tears  and  very  shrieks  of  woe  ! — 
Meanwhile,  some  moving  argument  I  plann'd, 
To  make  the  stern  Shade  merciful, — when  lo  ! 
He  drops  his  fatal  scythe  without  a  blow  ! 

XCVII. 

For,  just  at  need,  a  timely  Apparition 

Steps  in  between,  to  bear  the  awful  brunt  ; 

Making  him  change  his  horrible  position. 

To  marvel  at  this  comer,  brave  and  blunt, 

That  dares  Time's  irresistible  affront. 

Whose  strokes  have  scarr'd  even  the  gods  of  old  ; — 

Whereas  this  seem'd  a  mortal,  at  mere  hunt 

For  coneys,  lighted  by  the  moonshine  cold, 

Or  stalker  of  stray  deer,  stealthy  and  bold. 

XCVIII. 

Who,  turning  to  the  small  assembled  fays, 
Doffs  to  the  lily  queen  his  courteous  cap. 
And  holds  her  beauty  for  a  while  in  gaze. 
With  bright  eyes  kindling  at  this  pleasant  hap ; 
And  thence  upon  the  fair  moon's  silver  map. 
As  if  in  question  of  this  magic  chance, 
Laid  like  a  dream  upon  the  green  earth's  lap  ; 
And  then  upon  old  Saturn  turns  askance. 
Exclaiming,  with  a  glad  and  kindly  glance  : — 


■72  HOOD'S  POEMS. 

XCIX 

"  Oh,  these  be  Fancy's  revellers  by  night ! 
Stealthy  companions  of  the  downy  moth — 
Diana's  motes,  that  flit  in  her  pale  light, 
Shunners  of  sunbeams  in  diurnal  sloth  ; — 
These  be  the  feastei's  on  night's  silver  cloth, — 
The  gnat  with  shrilly  trump  is  their  convener, 
Forth  from  their  flowery  chambers,  nothing  loth, 
With  lulling  tunes  to  charm  the  air  serener. 
Or  dance  upon  the  grass  to  make  it  greener. 


"  These  be  the  pretty  genii  of  the  flow'rs, 

Daintily  fed  with  honey  and  pure  dew — 

Midsummer's  phantoms  in  her  dreaming  hours, 

King  Oberon,  aild  all  his  merry  crew. 

The  darling  puppets  of  romance's  view  ; 

Fairies,  and  sprites,  and  goblin  elves  we  call  them, 

Famous  for  patronage  of  lovers  true  ; — 

No  harm  they  act,  neither  shall  harm  befall  them. 

So  do  not  thus  with  crabbed  frowns  appal  them." 

O  what  a  cry  was  Saturn's  then  ! — it  made 

The  fairies  quake.     "  What  care  I  for  their  pranks. 

However  they  may  lovers  choose  to  aid, 

Or  dance  their  roundelays  on  flow'ry  banks  ? — 

Long  must  they  dance  before  they  earn  my  thanks,- 

So  step  aside,  to  some  far  safer  spot. 

Whilst  with  my  hungry  scythe  I  mow  their  ranks, 

And  leave  them  in  the  sun,  like  weeds,  to  rot, 

And  with  the  next  day's  sun  to  be  forgot." 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  73 

CII. 

Anon,  he  raised  afresh  his  weapon  keen  ; 
But  still  the  gracious  Shade  disarm'd  his  aim, 
Stepping  with  brave  alacrity  between, 
And  made  his  sere  arm  powerless  and  tame. 
His  be  perpetual  glory,  for  the  shame 
Of  hoary  Saturn  in  that  grand  defeat ! — 
But  I  must  tell,  how  here  Titania  came 
With  all  her  kneeling  lieges,  to  entreat 
His  kindly  succor,  in  sad  tones,  but  sweet. 

cm. 

Saying,  "'Thou  seest  a  wretched  queen  before  thee, 

The  fading  power  of  a  failing  land, 

Who  for  her  kingdom  kneeleth  to  implore  thee. 

Now  menac'd  by  this  tyrant's  spoiling  hand  ; 

No  one  but  thee  can  hopefully  withstand 

That  crooked  blade,  he  longeth  so  to  lift. 

I  pray  thee  blind  him  with  his  own  vile  sand, 

Which  only  times  all  ruins  by  its  drift, 

Or  prune  his  eagle  wings  that  are  so  swift. 

CIV. 

"  Or  take  him  by  that  sole  and  grizzled  tuft, 
That  hangs  upon  his  bald  and  barren  crown  ; 
And  we  will  sing  to  see  him  so  rebufPd, 
And  lend  our  little  mights  to  pull  him  down, 
And  make  brave  sport  of  his  malicious  frown, 
For  all  his  boastful  mockery  o'er  men. 
For  thou  wast  born  I  know  for  this  renown. 
By  my  most  magical  and  inward  ken. 
That  readeth  ev'n  at  Fate's  forestalling  pen. 
5 


74  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


cv. 


"  Nay,  by  the  golden  lustre  of  thine  eye, 
And  by  thy  brow's  most  fair  and  ample  span, 
Thought's  glorious  palace,  fram'd  for  fancies  high, 
And  by  thy  cheek  thus  passionately  wan, 
I  know  the  signs  of  an  immortal  man, — 
Nature's  chief  darling,  and  illustrious  mate, 
Destin'd  to  foil  old  Death's  oblivious  plan, 
And  shine  untarnish'd  by  the  fogs  of  Fate, 
Time's  famous  rival  till  the  final  date ! 


cvi. 


"  O  shield  us  then  from  this  usurping  Time, 
And  we  will  visit  thee  in  moonlight  dreams  ; 
And  teach  thee  tunes,  to  wed  unto  thy  rhyme. 
And  dance  about  thee  in  all  midnight  gleams, 
Giving  thee  glimpses  of  our  magic  schemes, 
Such  as  no  mortal's  eye  hath  ever  seen  ; 
And,  for  thy  love  to  us  in  our  extremes, 
Will  ever  keep  thy  chaplet  fresh  and  green. 
Such  as  no  poet's  wreath  hath  ever  been  ! 


cvii. 


"  And  we'll  distil  thee  aromatic  dews. 

To  charm  thy  sense,  when  there  shall  be  no  flow'rs  ; 

And  flavor'd  syrops  in  thy  drinks  infuse. 

And  teach  the  nightingale  to  haunt  thy  bow'rs. 

And  with  our  games  divert  thy  weariest  hours, 

With  all  that  elfin  wits  can  e'er  devise. 

And,  this  churl  dead,  there'll  be  no  hasting  hours 

To  rob  thee  of  thy- joys,  as  now  joy  flies  :" — 

Here  she  was  stopp'd  by  Saturn's  furious  cries. 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  75 

CVIII. 

Whom,  therefore,  the  kind  Shade  rebukes  anew, 
Saying,  "  Thou  haggard  Sin,  go  forth,  and  scoop 
Thy  hollow  coffin  in  some  churchyard  yew, 
Or  make  th'  autumnal  flow'rs  turn  pale,  and  droop  ; 
Or  fell  the  bearded  corn,  till  gleaners  stoop 
Under  fat  sheaves, — or  blast  the  piny  grove  ; — 
But  here  thou  shalt  not  harm  this  pretty  groupe, 
Whose  lives  are  not  so  frail  and  feebly  wove, 
But  leas'd  on  Nature's  loveliness  and  love. 

CIX. 

"  'Tis  these  that  free  the  small  entangled  fly. 
Caught  in  the  venom'd  spider's  crafty  snare  ; — 
These  be  the  petty  surgeons  that  apply 
The  healing  balsams  to  the  wounded  hare, 
Bedded  in  bloody  fern,  no  creature's  care  ! — 
These  be  providers  for  the  orphan  brood, 
Whose  tender  mother  hath  been  slain  in  air, 
Quitting  with  gaping  bill  her  darling's  food, 
Hard  by  the  verge  of  her  domestic  wood. 

ex. 

"  'Tis  these  befriend  the  timid  trembling  stag, 
When,  with  a  bursting  heart  beset  with  fears, 
He  feels  his  saving  speed  begin  to  flag  ; 
For  then  they  quench  the  fatal  taint  with  tears. 
And  prompt  fresh  shifts  in  his  alarum'd  ears. 
So  piteously  they  view  all  bloody  morts ; 
Or  if  the  gunner,  with  his  arm,  appears. 
Like  noisy  pyes  and  jays,  with  harsh  reports. 
They  warn  the  wild  fowl  of  his  deadly  sports. 


76  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


CXI. 


"  For  these  are  kindly  ministers  of  nature, 
To  soothe  all  covert  hurts  and  dumb  distress ; 
Pretty  they  be,  and  very  small  of  stature, — 
For  mercy  still  consorts  with  littleness  ; — 
Wherefore  the  sum  of  good  is  still  the  less, 
And  mischief  grossest  in  this  world  of  wrong  ;- 
So  do  these  charitable  dwarfs  redress 
The  tenfold  ravages  of  giants  strong, 
To  whom  great  malice  and  great  might  belong. 


CXII. 


"  Likewise  to  them  are  Poets  much  beholden 
For  secret  favors  in  the  midnight  glooms  ; 
Brave  Spenser  quaff'd  out  of  their  goblets  golden, 
And  saw  their  tables  spi'cad  of  prompt  mushrooms, 
And  heard  their  horns  of  honeysuckle  blooms 
Sounding  upon  the  air  most  soothing  soft, 
Like  humming  bees  busy  about  the  brooms, — 
And  glanc'd  this  fair  queen's  witchery  full  oft. 
And  in  her  magic  wain  soar'd  far  aloft. 


CXIII. 


"  Nay  I  myself,  though  mortal,  once  was  nurs'd 

By  fairy  gossips,  friendly  at  my  birth, 

And  in  my  childish  ear  glib  Mab  rehears'd 

Her  breezy  travels  round  our  planet's  girth, 

Telling  me  wonders  of  the  moon  and  earth  ; 

My  gramarye  at  her  grave  lap  I  conn'd. 

Where  Puck  hath  been  conven'd  to  make  me  mirth ; 

I  have  had  from  Queen  Titania  tokens  fond. 

And  toy'd  with  Oberon's  permitted  wand. 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  77 


CXIV. 


"  With  figs  and  plums  and  Persian  dates  they  fed  me. 
And  delicate  cates  after  my  sunset  meal, 
And  took  me  by  my  childish  hand,  and  led  me 
By  craggy  rocks  crested  with  keeps  of  steel, 
Whose  awful  bases  deep  dark  woods  conceal, 
Staining  some  dead  lake  with  their  verdant  dyes  : 
And  when  the  West  sparkled  at  Phoebus'  wheel, 
With  fairy  euphrasy  they  purg'd  mine  eyes, 
To  let  me  see  their  cities  in  the  skies. 


cxv. 


"  'Twas  they  first  school'd  my  young  imagination 

To  take  its  flights  like  any  new-ftedg'd  bird, 

And  show'd  the  span  of  winged  meditation 

Stretch'd  wider  than  things  grossly  seen  or  heard. 

With  sweet  swift  Ariel  how  I  soar'd  and  stirr'd 

The  fragrant  blooms  of  spiritual  bow'rs ! 

'Twas  they  endear'd  what  I  have  still  preferr'd, 

Nature's  blest  attributes  and  balmy  pow'rs, 

Her  hills  and  vales  and  brooks,  sweet  birds  and  flow'rs ! 


CXVI. 


"  Wherefore  with  all  true  loyalty  and  dut> 

Will  I  regard  them  in  my  honoring  rhyme. 

With  love  for  love,  and  homages  to  beauty. 

And  magic  thoughts  gather'd  in  night's  cool  clime, 

With  studious  verse  trancing  the  dragon  Time, 

Strong  as  old  Merlin's  necromantic  spells  ; 

So  these  dear  monarchs  of  the  summer's  prime 

Shall  live  unstartled  by  his  dreadful  yells, 

Till  shrill  larks  warn  them  to  their  flowery  cells." 


78  HOOD'S  POEMS. 

CXVII. 

Look  how  a  poison'd  man  turns  livid  black, 
Drugg'd  with  a  cup  of  deadly  hellebore, 
That  sets  his  horrid  features  all  at  rack,— 
So  seem'd  these  words  into  the  ear  to  pour 
Of  ghastly  Saturn,  answering  with  a  roar 
Of  mortal  pain  and  spite  and  utmost  rage, 
Wherewith  his  grisly  arm  he  rais'd  once  more, 
And  bade  the  cluster'd  sinews  all  engage, 
As  if  at  one  fell  stroke  to  wreck  an  age. 

CXVIIl 

Whereas  the  blade  flash'd  on  the  dinted  ground, 
Down  through  his  steadfast  foe,  yet  made  no  scar 
On  that  immortal  Shade,  or  death-like  wound  ; 
But  Time  was  long  benumb'd,  and  stood  ajar 
And  then  with  baffled  rage  took  flight  afar, 
To  weep  his  hurt  in  some  Cimmerian  gloom, 
Or  meaner  fames  (like  mine)  to  mock  and  mar, 
Or  sharp  his  scythe  for  royal  strokes  of  doom, 
Whetting  its  edge  on  some  old  Caesar's  tomb. 

CXIX. 

Howbeit  he  vanish'd  in  the  forest  shade. 
Distantly  heard  as  if  some  grumbling  pard. 
And,  like  Narcissus,  to  a  sound  decay'd  ; — 
Meanwhile  the  fays  cluster'd  the  gracious  Bard, 
The  darling  centre  of  their  dear  regard : 
Besides  of  sundry  dances  on  the  green. 
Never  was  mortal  man  so  brightly  starr'd, 
Or  won  such  pretty  homages,  I  ween. 
"  Nod  to  him.  Elves ! "  cries  the  melodious  queen. 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES,  79 

cxx. 

"  Nod  to  him,  Elves,  and  flutter  round  about  him. 
And  quite  enclose  him  with  your  pretty  crowd, 
And  touch  him  lovingly,  for  that,  without  him, 
The  silk-worm  now  had  spun  our  dreary  shroud  ; — 
But  he  hath  all  dispers'd  death's  tearful  cloud, 
And  Time  's  dread  effigy  scar'd  quite  away : 
Bow  to  him  then,  as  though  to  me  ye  bow'd. 
And  his  dear  wishes  prosper  and  obey 
Wherever  love  and  wit  can  find  a  way ! 

cxxi. 

"  'Noint  him  with  fairy  dews  of  magic  savors. 
Shaken  from  orient  buds  still  pearly  wet, 
Roses  and  spicy  pinks, — and,  of  all  favors, 
Plant  in  his  walks  the  purple  violet. 
And  meadow-sweet  under  the  hedges  set, 
To  mingle  breaths  with  dainty  eglantine 
And  honeysuckles  sweet, — nor  yet  forget 
Some  pastoral  flowery  chaplets  to  entwine, 
To  vie  the  thoughts  about  his  brow  benign ! 

CXXII. 

"  Let  no  wild  things  astonish  him  or  fear  him,  ^ 

But  tell  them  all  how  mild  he  is  of  heart, 

Till  e'en  the  timid  hares  go  frankly  near  him, 

And  eke  the  dappled  does,  yet  never  start ; 

Nor  shall  their  fawns  into  the  thickets  dart, 

Nor  wrens  forsake  their  nests  among  the  leaves, 

Nor  speckled  thrushes  flutter  far  apart ; — 

But  bid  the  sacred  swallow  haunt  his  eaves. 

To  guard  his  roof  from  lightning  and  from  thieves. 


80  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


CXXIII. 


"  Or  when  he  goes  the  nimble  squirrel's  visitor, 
Let  the  brown  hei'mit  bring  his  hoarded  nuts, 
For,  lell  him,  this  is  Nature's  I^ind  Inquisitor, — 
Though  man  keeps  cautious  doors  that  conscience  shuts, 
For  conscious  wrong  all  curious  quest  rebuts, — 
Nor  yet  shall  bees  uncase  their  jealous  stings. 
However  he  may  watch  their  straw-built  huts  ; — 
So  let  him  learn  the  crafts  of  all  small  things. 
Which  he  will  hint  most  aptly  when  he  sings." 

CXXIV. 

Here  she  leaves  off,  and  with  a  graceful  hand 
Waves  thrice  three  splendid  circles  round  his  head ; 
Which,  though  deserted  by  the  radiant  wand, 
Wears  still  the  glory  which  her  waving  shed. 
Such  as  erst  crown'd  the  old  Apostle's  head. 
To  show  the  thoughts  there  harbor'd  were  divine, 
And  on  immortal  contemplations  fed  : — 
Goodly  it  was  to  see  that  glory  shine 
Around  a  brow  so  lofty  and  benign  ! 

cxxv. 

Goodly  it  was  to  see  the  elfin  brood 
Contend  for  kisses  of  his  gentle  hand. 
That  had  their  mortal  enemy  withstood, 
And  stay'd  their  lives,  fast  ebbing  with  the  sand. 
Long  while  this  strife  engag'd  the  pretty  band ; 
But  now  bold  Chanticleer,  from  farm  to  farm, 
Challeng'd  the  dawn  creeping  o'er  eastern  land. 
And  well  the  fairies  knew  that  shrill  alarm. 
Which  sounds  the  knell  of  every  elfish  charm. 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  81 

CXXVI. 

And  soon  the  rolling  mist,  that  'gan  arise 
From  plashy  mead  and  undiscover'd  stream, 
Earth  's  morning  incense  to  the  early  skies, 
Crept  o'er  the  failing  landscape  of  my  dream. 
Soon  faded  then  the  Phantom  of  my  theme — 
A  shapeless  shade,  that  fancy  disavow'd. 
And  shrank  to  nothing  in  the  mist  extreme. 
Then  flew  Titania, — and  her  little  crowd. 
Like  flocking  linnets,  vanish'd  in  a  cloud. 


5* 


HERO    AN  D    L  E  A  N  I)  E  R. 


1827. 


TO 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE,  ESQ. 


It  is  not  with  a  hope  my  feeble  praise 

Can  add  one  moment's  honor  to  thy  own, 

That  with  thy  mighty  name  I  grace  these  lays  ; 

I  seek  to  glorify  myself  alone  : 

For  that  some  precious  favor  thou  hast  shown 

To  my  endeavor  in  a  by-gone  time, 

And  by  this  token,  I  would  have  it  known 

Thou  art  my  friend,  and  friendly  to  my  rhyme  ! 

It  is  my  dear  ambition  now  to  climb 

Still  higher  in  thy  thought, — if  my  bold  pen 

May  thrust  on  contemplations  more  sublime. — 

But  I  am  thirsty  for  thy  praise,  for  when 

We  gain  applauses  from  the  great  in  name. 

We  seem  to  be  partakers  of  their  fame. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER. 


I. 


Oh  Bards  of  old !  what  sorrows  have  ye  sung, 
And  tragic  stories,  chronicled  in  stone, — 
Sad  Philomel  restor'd  her  ravish'd  tongue, 
And  transform'd  Niobe  in  dumbness  shown  ; 
Sweet  Sappho  on  her  love  for  ever  calls. 
And  Hero  on  the  drown'd  Leander  falls ! 


n. 

Was  it  that  spectacles  of  sadder  plights, 
Should  make  our  blisses  relish  the  more  high  ? 
Then  all  fair  dames,  and  maidens,  and  true  knights, 
Whose  flourish'd  fortunes  prosper  in  Love's  eye, 
Weep  here,  unto  a  tale  of  ancient  grief, 
Trac'd  from  the  course  of  an  old  bas-relief. 

m. 

There  stands  Abydos ! — here  is  Sestos'  steep, 
Hard  by  the  gusty  margin  of  the  sea. 
Where  sprinkling  waves  continually  do  leap  ; 
And  that  is  where  those  famous  lovers  be, 
A  builded  gloom  shot  up  into  the  grey, 
As  if  the  first  tall  watch-tow'r  of  the  day. 


86  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


IV. 


Lo !  how  the  lark  soars  upward  and  is  gone  ; 
Turning  a  spirit  as  he  nears  the  sky, 
His  voice  is  heard,  though  body  there  is  none. 
And  rain-like  music  scatters  from  on  high ; 
But  Love  would  follow  with  a  falcon  spite, 
To  pluck  the  minstrel  from  his  dewy  height. 


For  Love  hath  fram'd  a  ditty  of  regrets, 
Tun'd  to  the  hollow  sobbings  on  the  shore, 
A  vexing  sense,  that  with  like  music  frets, 
And  chimes  this  dismal  burthen  o'er  and  o'er, 
Saying,  Leander's  joys  are  past  and  spent, 
Like  stars  extinguish'd  in  the  firmament. 

VI. 

For  ere  the  golden  crevices  of  morn    , 
Let  in  those  regal  luxuries  of  light, 
Which  all  the  variable  east  adorn, 
And  hang  rich  fringes  on  the  skirts  of  night, 
Leander,  weaning  from  sweet  Hero's  side. 
Must  leave  a  widow  where  he  found  a  bride. 

VII. 

Hark !  how  the  billows  beat  upon  the  sand ! 
Like  pawing  steeds  impatient  of  delay  ; 
Meanwhile  their  rider,  ling'ring  on  the  land, 
Dallies  with  love,  and  holds  farewell  at  bay 
A  too  short  span. — How  tedious  slow  is  grief! 
But  parting  renders  time  both  sad  and  brief. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  87 

VIII. 

"  Alas  (he  sigh'd),  that  this  first  glimpsing  light, 

Which  makes  the  wide  world  tenderly  appear, 

Should  be  the  burning  signal  for  my  flight, 

From  all  the  world's  best  image,  which  is  here ; 

Whose  very  shadow,  in  my  fond  compare, 

Shines  far  more  bright  than  Beauty's  self  elsewhere." 

IX. 

I 

Their  cheeks  are  white  as  blossoms  of  the  dark. 
Whose  leaves  close  up  and  show  the  outward  pale, 
And  those  fair  mirrors  where  their  joys  did  spark, 
All  dim  and  tarnish'd  with  a  dreary  veil, 
No  more  to  kindle  till  the  night's  return, 
Like  stars  replenish'd  at  Joy's  golden  urn. 


Ev'n  thus  they  creep  into  the  spectral  grey. 
That  cramps  the  landscape  in  its  narrow  brim, 
As  when  two  shadows  by  old  Lethe  stray, 
He  clasping  her,  and  she  entwining  him ; 
Like  trees  wind-parted  that  embrace  anon, 
True  love  so  often  goes  before  'tis  gone. 

XI. 

For  what  rich  merchant  but  will  pause  in  fear. 
To  trust  his  wealth  to  the  unsafe  abyss  ? 
So  Hero  dotes  upon  her  treasure  here, 
And  sums  the  loss  with  many  an  anxious  kiss, 
Whilst  her  fond  eyes  grow  djzzy  in  her  head, 
Fear  aggravating  fear  with  shows  of  dread. 


88  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


XII. 


She  thinks  how  many  have  been  sunk  and  drown'd, 
And  spies  their  snow-white  bones  below  the  deep, 
Then  calls  huge  congregated  monsters  round, 
And  plants  a  rock  wherever  he  would  leap  ; 
Anon  she  dwells  on  a  fantastic  dream. 
Which  she  interprets  of  that  fatal  stream. 


XIII. 


Saying,  "  That  honey'd  fly  1  saw  was  thee, 
Which  lighted  on  a  water-lily's  cup. 
When,  lo  !  the  flow'r,  enamor'd  of  my  bee, 
Closed  on  him  suddenly  and  lock'd  him  up. 
And  he  was  smother'd  in  her  drenching  dew  • 
Therefore  this  day  thy  drowning  I  shall  rue." 


XIV. 


But  next,  remembering  her  virgin  fame. 

She  clips  him  in  her  arms  and  bids  him  go, 

But  seeing  him  break  loose,  repents  her  shame 

And  plucks  him  back  upon  her  bosom's  snow  ; 

And  tears  unfix  her  iced  resolve  again. 

As  steadfast  frosts  are  thaw'd  by  show'rs  of  rain. 


xv. 


O  for  a  type  of  parting ! — Love  to  love 
Is  like  the  fond  attraction  of  two  spheres. 
Which  needs  a  godlike  effort  to  remove. 
And  then  sink  down  their  sunny  atmospheres, 
In  rain  and  darkness  on  each  ruin'd  heart, 
Nor  yet  their  melodies  will  sound  apart. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  89 


XVI. 

So  brave  Leander  sunders  from  his  bride  ; 

The  wrenching  pang  disparts  his  soul  in  twain  ; 

Half  stays  with  her,  half  goes  towards  the  tide, — 

And  life  must  ache,  until  they  join  again. 

Now  would'st  thou  know  the  wideness  of  the  wound. 

Mete  every  step  he  takes  upon  the  ground. 


XVII. 


And  for  the  agony  and  bosom-throe, 

Let  it  be  measur'd  by  the  wide  vast  air, 

For  that  is  infinite,  and  so  is  woe, 

Since  parted  lovers  breathe  it  everywhere. 

Look  how  it  heaves  Leander's  laboring  chest. 

Panting,  at  poise,  upon  a  rocky  crest ! 


xvm. 


From  which  he  leaps  into  the  scooping  brine. 
That  shocks  his  bosom  with  a  double  chill  ; 
Because,  all  hours,  till  the  slow  sun's  decline, 
That  cold  divorcer  will  betwixt  them  still ; 
Wherefore  he  likens  it  to  Styx'  foul  tide, 
Where  life  grows  death  upon  the  other  side. 


xiz. 


Then  sadly  he  confronts  his  two-fold  toil 
Against  rude  waves  and  an  unwilling  mind, 
Wishing,  alas  !  with  the  stout  rower's  toil. 
That  like  a  rower  he  might  gaze  behind, 
And  watch  that  lonely  .statue  he  hath  left 
On  her  bleak  .summit,  weeping  and  bereft! 


90  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


XX. 


Yet  turning  oft,  he  sees  her  troubled  locks 
Pursue  him  still  the  farthest  that  they  may ; 
Her  marble  arms  that  overstretch  the  rocks, 
And  her  pale  passion'd  hands  that  seem  to  pray 
In  dumb  petition  to  the  gods  above  : 
Love  prays  devoutly  when  it  prays  for  love ! 


XXI. 


Then  with  deep  sighs  he  blows  away  the  wave, 
That  hangs  superfluous  tears  upon  his  cheek. 
And  bans  his  labor  like  a  hopeless  slave, 
That,  chain'd  in  hostile  galley,  faint  and  weak, 
Plies  on  despairing  through  the  restless  foam. 
Thoughtful  of  his  lost  love,  and  far-off  home. 

XXII. 

The  drowsy  mist  before  him  chill  and  dark, 
Like  a  dull  lethargy  o'erleans  the  sea. 
Where  he  rows  on  against  the  utter  blank, 
Steering  as  if  to  dim  eternity, — 
Like  Love's  frail  ghost  departing  with  the  dawn  ; 
A  failing  shadow  in  the  twilight  drawn. 

xxm. 

And  soon  is  gone, — or  nothing  but  a  faint 
And  failing  image  in  the  eye  of  thought, 
That  mocks  his  model  with  an  after- paint. 
And  stains  an  atom  like  the  paint  he  sought ; 
Then  with  her  earnest  vows  she  hopes  to  fee, 
The  old  and  hoary  majesty  of  sea. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  91 

XXIV. 

"  O  King  of  waves,  and  brother  of  high  Jove, 
Preserve  my  sumless  venture  there  afloat ; 
A  woman's  heart,  and  its  whole  wealtli  of  love, 
Are  all  embark'd  upon  that  little  boat ; 
Nay,  but  two  loves,  two  lives,  a  double  fate, 
A  perilous  voyage  for  so  dear  a  freight. 

XXV. 

"  If  impious  mariners  be  stain'd  with  crime, 
Shake  not  in  awful  rage  thy  hoary  locks  ; 
Lay  by  thy  storms  until  another  time. 
Lest  my  frail  bark  be  dash'd  against  the  rocks : 
O  rather  smoothe  thy  deeps,  that  he  may  fly 
Like  Love  himself,  upon  a  seeming  sky  ! 

XXVI. 

"  Let  all  thy  herded  monsters  sleep  beneath. 

Nor  gore  him  with  crook'd  tusks,  or  wreathed  horns  ; 

Let  no  fierce  sharks  destroy  him  with  their  teeth. 

Nor  spine-fish  wound  him  with  their  venom'd  thorns ; 

But  if  he  faint,  and  timely  succor  lack. 

Let  ruthful  dolphins  rest  him  on  their  back. 

XXVII. 

"  Let  no  false  dimpling  whirlpools  suck  him  in. 
Nor  slimy  quicksands  smother  his  sweet  breath  ; 
Let  no  jagg'd  corals  tear  his  tender  skin, 
Nor  mountain  billows  bury  him  in  death  ;" — 
And  with  that  thought  forestalling  her  own  fears. 
She  drown'd  his  painted  image  in  her  tears. 


92  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


XXVIII. 


By  this,  the  climbing  sun,  with  rest  repair'd, 
Look'd  through  the  gold  embrasures  of  the  sky, 
And  ask'd  the  drowsy  world  how  she  had  far'd  ;- 
The  drowsy  world  shone  brighten'd  in  reply  ; 
And  smiling  off  her  fogs,  his  slanting  beam 
Spied  young  Leander  in  the  middle  stream. 


XXIX. 


His  face  was  pallid,  but  the  hectic  morn, 
Had  hung  a  lying  crimson  on  his  cheeks. 
And  slanderous  sparkles  in  his  eyes  forlorn  ; 
So  death  lies  ambush'd  in  consumptive  streaks 
But  inward  grief  was  writhing  o'er  its  task, 
As  heart-sick  jesters  weep  behind  the  mask. 


XXX. 


He  thought  of  Hero  and  the  lost  delight. 
Her  last  embracings,  and  the  space  between  ; 
He  thought  of  Hero  and  the  future  night, 
Her  speechless  rapture  and  enamor'd  mien. 
When,  lo  !  before  him,  scarce  two  galleys'  space, 
His  thought 's  confronted  with  another  face  ! 


XXXI. 


Her  aspect 's  like  a  moon  divinely  fair, 
But  makes  the  midnight  darker  that  it  lies  on  ; 
'Tis  so  beclouded  with  her  coal-black  hair 
That  densely  skirts  her  luminous  horizon. 
Making  her  doubly  fair,  thus  darkly  set, 
As  marble  lies  advantag'd  upon  jet. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  93 


XXXII. 


She  's  all  too  bright,  too  argent,  and  too  pale, 

To  be  a  woman ; — but  a  woman's  double, 

Reflected  on  the  wave  so  faint  and  frail. 

She  tops  the  billows  like  an  air-blown  bubble  ; 

Or  dim  ci-eation  of  a  morning  dream, 

Fair  as  the  wave-bleach'd  lily  of  the  stream. 


XXXIII. 


The  very  rumor  strikes  his  seeing  dead : 
Great  beauty  like  great  fear  first  stuns  the  sense 
lie  knows  not  if  her  lips  be  blue  or  red, 
Nor  of  her  eyes  can  give  true  evidence  : 
Like  murder's  witness  swooning  in  the  court, 
His  sight  falls  senseless  by  its  own  report. 


XXXIV. 


Anon  resuming,  it  declares  her  eyes 

Are  tinct  with  azure,  like  two  crystal  wells 

That  drink  the  blue  complexion  of  the  skies. 

Or  pearls  outpeeping  from  their  silvery  shells  : 

Her  polish'd  brow,  it  is  an  ample  plain, 

To  lodge  vast  contemplations  of  the  main. 


XXXV. 


Her  lips  might  corals  seem,  but  corals  near, 
Stray  through  her  hair  like  blossoms  on  a  bower ; 
And  o'er  the  weaker  red  still  domineer, 
And  make  it  pale  by  tribute  to  more  power ; 
Her  rounded  checks  are  of  still  paler  hue, 
Touch'd  by  the  bloom  of  water,  tender  blue. 


94  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


XXXVI. 


Thus  he  beholds  her  rocking  on  the  water ; 
Under  the  glossy  umbrage  of  her  hair, 
Like  pearly  Amphitrite's  fairest  daughter, 
Naiad,  or  Nereid, — or  Syren  fair, 
Mislodging  music  in  her  pitiless  breast, 
A  nightingale  within  a  falcon's  nest. 


XXXVII. 


They  say  there  be  such  maidens  in  the  deep, 
Charming  poor  mariners,  that  all  too  near 
By  mortal  lullabies  fall  dead  asleep, 
As  drowsy  men  are  poison 'd  through  the  ear; 
Therefore  Leander's  fears  begin  to  urge. 
This  snowy  swan  is  come  to  sing  his  dirge. 


XXXVIII. 


At  which  he  falls  into  a  deadly  chill, 
And  strains  his  eyes  upon  her  lips  apart ; 
Fearing  each  breath  to  feel  that  prelude  shrill. 
Pierce  through  his  marrow,  like  a  breath-blown  dart 
Shot  sudden  from  an  Indian's  hollow  cane, 
With  mortal  venom  fraught,  and  fiery  pain. 


XXXIX. 


Here  then,  poor  wretch,  how  he  begins  to  crowd 
A  thousand  thoughts  within  a  pulse's  space ; 
There  seem'd  so  brief  a  pause  of  life  allow'd, 
His  mind  stretch'd  universal,  to  embrace 
The  whole  wide  world,  in  an  extreme  farewell, — 
A  moment's  musing — but  an  age  to  tell. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  D5 

XL. 

For  there  stood  Hero,  widow'd  at  a  glance,  "    ~ 

The  foreseen  sum  of  many  a  tedious  fact. 

Pale  cheeks,  dim  eyes,  and  wither'd  countenance, 

A  wasted  ruin  that  no  wasting  lack'd  ; 

Time's  tragic  consequents  ere  time  began, 

A  world  of  sorrow  in  a  tear-drop's  span. 

XLI. 

A  moment's  thinkinsr  is  an  hour  in  words. — 

An  hour  of  words  is  little  for  some  woes  ; 

Too  little  breathing  a  long  life  affords. 

For  love  to  paint  itself  by  perfect  shows  ;  '  ' 

Then  let  his  love  and  grief  unwrong'd  lie  dumb, 

Whilst  Fear,  and  that  it  fears,  together  come. 

XLII. 

As  when  the  crew,  hard  by  some  jutty  capo, 
Struck  pale  and  panick'd  by  the  billows'  roar. 
Lay  by  all  timely  measures  of  escape. 
And  let  their  bark  go  driving  on  the  shore  ; 
So  fray'd  Leander,  drifting  to  his  wreck. 
Gazing  on  Scylla,  falls  upon  her  neck. 

XI^III. 

For  he  hath  all  forgot  the  swimmer's  art. 
The  rower's  cunning,  and  the  pilot's  skill, 
Letting  his  arms  fall  down  in  languid  part, 
Sway'd  by  the  waves,  and  nothing  by  his  will. 
Till  soon  he  jars  against  that  glossy  skin. 
Solid  like  glass,  though  seemingly  as  thin. 


96  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


XLIV. 

.  Lo  !  how  she  startles  at  the  warning  shock, 
And  straightway  girds  him  to  her  radiant  breast, 
More  like  his  safe  smooth  harbor  than  his  rock ; 
Poor  wretch,  he  is  so  faint  and  toil-opprest, 
He  cannot  loose  him  from  his  grappling  foe, 
Whether  for  love  or  hate,  she  lets  not  go. 


XLV. 

His  eyes  are  blinded  with  the  sleety  brine, 

His  ears  are  deafen'd  with  the  wildering  noise  ; 

He  asks  the  purpose  of  her  fell  design, 

But  foamy  waves  choke  up  his  struggling  voice  ; 

Under  the  ponderous  sea  his  body  dips. 

And  Hero's  name  dies  bubbling  on  his  lips. 

XLVI. 

Look  how  a  man  is  lower'd  to  his  grave ; 
A  yearning  hollow  in  the  green  earth's  lap ; 
So  he  is  sunk  into  the  yawning  wave. 
The  plunging  sea  fills  up  the  watery  gap  ; 
Anon  he  is  all  gone,  and  nothing  seen, 
But  likeness  of  green  turf  and  hillocks  green. 

XLVII. 

And  where  he  swam,  the  constant  sun  lies  sleeping. 
Over  the  verdant  plain  that  makes  his  bed  ; 
And  all  the  noisy  waves  go  freshly  leaping, 
Like  gamesome  boys  over  the  churchyard  dead  ; 
The  light  in  vain  keeps  looking  for  his  face, 
Now  screaming  sea-fowl  settle  in  his  place. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  97 


XLVIII. 


Yet  weep  and  watch  for  him  though  all  in  vain ! 
Ye  moaning  billows,  seek  him  as  ye  wander ! 
Ye  gazing  sunbeams,  look  for  him  again  ! 
Ye  winds,  grow  hoarse  with  asking  for  Leander  ! 
Ye  did  but  spare  him  for  more  cruel  rape. 
Sea-storm  and  ruin  in  a  female  shape  ! 


XLIX. 


She  says  'tis  love  hath  bribed  her  to  this  deed, 
The  glancing  of  his  eyes  did  so  bewitch  her, 
O  bootless  theft !  unprofitable  meed  ! 
Love's  treasury  is  sack'd,  but  she  no  richer ; 
The  sparkles  of  his  eyes  are  cold  and  dead, 
And  all  his  golden  locks  are  turn'd  to  lead ! 


I.. 


She  holds  the  casket,  but  her  simple  hand 
Hath  spill'd  its  dearest  jewel  by  the  way  ; 
She  hath  life's  empty  garment  at  command, 
But  her  own  death  lies  covert  in  the  prey  ; 
As  if  a  thief  should  steal  a  tainted  vest, 
Some  dead  man's  spoil,  and  sicken  of  his  pest. 


LI. 


Now  she  compels  him  to  her  deeps  below, 
Hiding  his  face  beneath  her  plenteous  hair, 
Which  jealously  she  shakes  all  round  her  brow, 
For  dread  of  envy,  though  no  eyes  are  there 
But  seals',  and  all  brute  tenants  of  the  deep. 
Which  heedless  through  the  wave  their  journeys  keep. 
G 


98  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


L.1I. 


Down  and  still  downward  through  the  dusky  green 

She  bore  him,  murmuring  with  joyous  haste 

In  too  rash  ignorance,  as  he  had  been 

Born  to  the  texture  of  that  watery  waste ; 

That  which  she  breath'd  and  sigh'd,  the  emerald  wave, 

How  could  her  pleasant  home  become  his  grave ! 


LIII. 


Down  and  still  downward  through  the  dusky  green 
She  bore  her  treasure,  with  a  face  too  nigh 
To  mark  how  life  was  alter'd  in  its  mien, 
Or  how  the  light  grew  torpid  in  his  eye. 
Or  how  his  pearly  breath  unprison'd  there, 
Flew  up  to  join  the  universal  air. 


LIV. 


She  could  not  miss  the  throbbings  of  his  heai-t, 
Whilst  her  own  pulse  so  wanton'd  in  its  joy  ; 
She  could  not  guess  he  struggled  to  depart. 
And  when  he  strove  no  more,  the  hapless  boy  ! 
She  read  his  mortal  stillness  for  content, 
Feeling  no  fear  where  only  love  was  meant. 


Soon  she  alights  upon  her  ocean-floor, 

And  straight  unyokes  her  arms  from  her  fair  prize ; 

Then  on  his  lovely  face  begins  to  pore. 

As  if  to  glut  her  soul ; — her  hungry  eyes 

Have  grown  so  jealous  of  her  arms'  delight ; 

It  seems,  she  hath  no  other  sense  but  sight. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  99 


But  O  sad  marvel !  0  most  bitter  strange  ! 
What  dismal  magic  makes  his  cheek  so  pale, 
Why  will  he  not  embrace, — why  not  exchange 
Her  kindly  kisses  ; — wherefore  not  exhale 
Some  odorous  message  from  life's  ruby  gates, 
Where  she  his  first  sweet  embassy  awaits  ? 

LVII. 

Her  eyes,  poor  watchers,  fix'd  upon  his  looks. 
Are  grappled  with  a  wonder  near  to  grief, 
As  one,  who  pores  on  undecipher'd  books, 
Strains  vain  surmise,  and  dodges  with  belief; 
So  she  keeps  gazing  with  a  mazy  thought, 
Framing  a  thousand  doubts  that  end  in  naught. 

LVIII. 

Too  stern  inscription  for  a  page  so  young, 
The  dark  translation  of  his  look  was  death ! 
But  death  was  written  in  an  alien  tongue. 
And  learning  was  not  by  to  give  it  breath  ; 
So  one  deep  woe  sleeps  buried  in  its  seal. 
Which  Time,  untimely,  hasteth  to  reveal. 

LIX. 

Meanwhile  she  sits  unconscious  of  her  hap. 
Nursing  Death's  marble  effigy,  which  there 
With  heavy  head  lies  pillow'd  in  her  lap, 
And  elbows  all  unhinged  ; — his  sleeking  hair 
Creeps  o'er  her  knees,  and  settles  where  his  hand 
Leans  with  lax  fingers  crook'd  against  the  sand ; 


100  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


LX. 


And  there  lies  spread  in  many  an  oozy  trail, 
Like  glossy  weeds  hung  from  a  chalky  base. 
That  shows  no  whiter  than  his  brow  is  pale ; 
So  soon  the  wintry  death  had  bleach'd  his  face 
Into  cold  marble, — with  blue  chilly  shades, 
Showing  wherein  the  freezy  blood  pervades. 


LXI. 


And  o'er  his  steadfast  cheek  a  furrow'd  pain 
Hath  set,  and  stiffen'd  like  a  storm  in  ice, 
Showing  by  drooping  lines  the  deadly  strain 
Of  mortal  anguish  ; — yet  you  might  gaze  twice 
Ere  Death  it  seem'd,  and  not  his  cousin,  Sleep, 
That  through  those  creviced  lids  did  underpeep. 


LXII. 


But  all  that  tender  bloom  about  his  eyes. 

Is  Death's  own  vi'lets,  which  his  utmost  rite 

It  is  to  scatter  when  the  red  rose  dies ; 

For  blue,  is  chilly,  and  akin  to  white : 

Also  he  leaves  some  tinges  on  his  lips. 

Which  he  hath  kiss'd  with  such  cold  frosty  nips. 


LXIII. 


"Surely,"  quoth  she,  "he  sleeps,  the  senseless  thing, 
Oppress'd  and  faint  with  toiling  in  the  stream !" 
Therefore  she  will  not  mar  his  rest,  but  sing 
So  low,  her  tune  shall  mingle  with  his  dream ; 
Meanwhile,  her  lily  fingers  tasks  to  twine 
His  uncrispt  locks  uncurling  in  the  brine. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  101 

LXIV. 

"  O  lovely  boy  !" — thus  she  attun'd  her  voice, — 
"  Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  to  a  sea-maid's  home, 
My  love-mate  thou  shalt  be,  and  true  heart's  choice ; 
How  have  I  long'd  such  a  twin-self  should  come, — 
A  lonely  thing,  till  this  sweet  chance  befel. 
My  heart  kept  sighing  like  a  hollow  shell. 

LXV. 

"  Here  thou  shalt  live,  beneath  this  secret  dome, 
An  ocean-bow'r;  defended  by  the  shade 
Of  quiet  waters,  a  cool  emerald  gloom 
To  lap  thee  all  about.     Nay,  be  not  fray'd, 
Those  are  but  shady  fishes  that  sail  by 
Like  antic  clouds  across  my  liquid  sky ! 

LXVI. 

"  Look  how  the  sunbeam  burns  upon  their  scales, 
And  shows  rich  glimpses  of  their  Tyrian  skins. 
They  flash  small  lightnings  from  their  vigorous  tails. 
And  winking  stars  are  kindled  at  their  fins ; 
These  shall  divert  thee  in  thy  weariest  mood, 
And  seek  thy  hand  for  gamesomeness  and  food. 

LXVII. 

"  Lo  !  those  green  pretty  leaves  with  tassel  bells. 
My  flow'rets  those,  that  never  pine  for  drowth ; 
Myself  did  plant  them  in  the  dappled  shells. 
That  drink  the  wave  with  such  a  rosy  mouth, — 
Pearls  wouldst  thou  have  beside  ?  crystals  to  shine  ? 
I  had  such  treasures  once, — now  they  are  tliine. 


102  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


I, XVIII. 


'^  Now,  lay  thine  ear  against  this  golden  sand, 
And  thou  shalt  hear  the  music  of  the  sea, 
Those  hollow  tunes  it  plays  against  the  land, — 
Is  't  not  a  rich  and  wondrous  melody  ? 
I  have  lain  hours,  and  fancied  in  its  tone 
I  heard  the  languages  of  ages  gone  ! 


LXIX. 


"  I  too  can  sing  when  it  shall  please  thy  choice, 
And  breathe  soft  tunes  through  a  melodious  shell, 
Though  heretofore  I  have  but  set  my  voice 
To  soine  long  sighs,  grief  harmonized,  to  tell 
How  desolate  I  fared  ; — but  this  sweet  change 
Will  add  new  notes  of  gladness  to  my  range ! 


LXX. 


"  Or  bid  me  speak,  and  I  will  tell  thee  tales, 
Which  I  have  framed  out  of  the  noise  of  waves ; 
Ere  now,  I  have  commun'd  with  senseless  gales, 
And  held  vain  colloquies  with  barren  caves ; 
But  I  could  talk  to  thee  whole  days  and  days, 
Only  to  word  my  love  a  thousand  ways. 


LXXI. 


"  But  if  thy  lips  will  bless  me  with  their  speech, 

Then  ope,  sweet  oracles  !  and  I'll  be  mute  ; 

I  was  born  ignorant  for  thee  to  teach, 

Nay  all  love's  lore  to  thy  dear  looks  impute  ; 

Then  ope  thine  eyes,  fair  teachers,  by  whose  light 

I  saw  to  give  away  my  heart  aright !" 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  103 

L.XXU. 

But  cold  and  deaf  the  sullen  creature  lies, 
Over  her  knees,  and  with  concealing  clay, 
Like  hoarding  Avarice  locks  up  his  eyes, 
And  leaves  her  world  impoverish'd  of  day  ; 
Then  at  his  cruel  lips  she  bends  to  plead. 
But  there  the  door  is  closed  against  her  need. 

LXXIII. 

Surely  he  sleeps, — so  her  false  wits  infer  ! 
Alas !  poor  sluggard,  ne'er  to  wake  again  ! 
Surely  he  sleeps,  yet  without  any  stir 
That  might  denote  a  vision  in  his  brain ; 
Or  if  he  does  not  sleep,  he  feigns  too  long, 
Twice  she  hath  reach'd  the  ending  of  her  sono-. 

LXXIV. 

Therefore  'tis  time  she  tells  him  to  uncover 
Those  radiant  jesters,  and  disperse  her  fears, 
Whereby  her  April  face  is  shaded  over, 
Like  rainy  clouds  just  ripe  for  showering  tears  ; 
Nay,  if  he  will  not  wake,  so  poor  she  gets, 
Herself  must  rob  those  lock'd  up  cabinets.  * 


LXXV. 


With  that  she  stoops  above  his  brow,  and  bids 
Her  busy  hands  forsake  his  tangled  hair. 
And  tenderly  lift  up  those  coffer-lids. 
That  she  might  gaze  upon  the  jewels  there, 
Like  babes  that  pluck  an  early  bud  apart. 
To  know  the  dainty  color  of  its  heart. 


104  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


LXXVI. 


Now,  picture  one,  soft  creeping  to  a  bed, 
Who  slowly  parts  the  fringe-hung  canopies, 
And  then  starts  back  to  find  the  sleeper  dead 
So  she  looks  in  on  his  uncover'd  eyes, 
And  seeing  all  within  so  drear  and  dai'k. 
Her  own  bright  soul  dies  in  her  like  a  spark. 


LXXVII 


Backward  slie  falls,  like  a  pale  prophetess, 
Under  the  swoon  of  holy  divination  : 
And  what  had  all  surpass'd  her  simple  guess, 
She  now  resolves  in  this  dark  revelation  ; 
Death's  very  mystery, — oblivious  death  ; — 
Long  sleep, — deep  night,  and  an  entranced  breath. 


LXXVIII. 


Yet  life,  though  wounded  sore,  not  wholly  slain, 
Merely  obscur'd,  and  not  extinguish'd,  lies  ; 
Her  breath  that  stood  at  ebb,  soon  flows  again. 
Heaving  her  hollow  breast  with  heavy  sighs. 
And  light  comes  in  and  kindles  up  the  gloom, 
To  light  her  spirit  from  its  transient  tomb. 


LXXIX. 


Then  like  the  sun,  awaken'd  at  new  dawn. 
With  pale  bewilder'd  face  she  peers  about. 
And  spies  blurr'd  images  obscurely  drawn, 
Uncertain  shadows  in  a  haze  of  doubt ; 
But  her  true  grief  grows  shapely  by  degrees, 
A  perish'd  creature  lying  on  her  knees. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  105 

LXXX. 

And  now  she  knows  how  that  old  Murther  preys, 
Whose  quarry  on  her  lap  lies  newly  slain  : 
How  he  roams  all  abroad  and  grimly  slays, 
Like  a  lean  tiger  in  Love's  own  domain  ; 
Parting  fond  mates, — and  oft  in  flowery  lawns 
Bereaves  mild  mothers  of  their  milky  fawns. 

LXXXI. 

O  too  dear  knowledge  !  O  pernicious  earning  ! 
Foul  curse  engraven  upon  beauty's  page  ! 
Ev'n  now  the  sorrow  of  that  deadly  learning 
Ploughs  up  her  brow,  like  an  untimely  age. 
And  on  her  cheek  stamps  verdict  of  death's  truth. 
By  canker  blights  upon  the  bud  of  youth ! 

LXXXU. 

For  as  unwholesome  winds  decay  the  leaf. 
So  her  cheeks'  rose  is  perish'd  by  her  sighs, 
And  withers  in  the  sickly  breath  of  grief; 
Whilst  unacquainted  rheum  bedims  her  eyes, 
Tears,  virgin  tears,  the  first  that  ever  leapt 
From  those  young  lids,  now  plentifully  wept. 

Lxxxni. 

Whence  being  shed,  the  liquid  crystalline 
Drops  straightway  down,  refusing  to  partake 
In  gross  admixture  with  the  baser  brine, 
But  shrinks  and  hardens  into  pearls  opaque, 
Hereafter  to  be  worn  on  arms  and  ears ; 
So  one  maid's  trophy  is  another's  tears ! 

6* 


106  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


LXXXIV. 


"  O  foul  Arch-Shadow,  thou  old  cloud  of  Night 
(Thus  m  her  frenzy  she  began  to  wail), 
Thou  blank  oblivion — blotter  out  of  light. 
Life's  ruthless  murderer,  and  dear  love's  bale ! 
Why  hast  thou  left  thy  havoc  incomplete, 
Leaving  me  here,  and  slaying  the  more  sweet  ? 


LXXXV. 


"  Lo  !  what  a  lovely  ruin  thou  hast  made, 
Alas  !  alas  !  thou  hast  no  eyes  to  see. 
And  blindly  slew'st  him  in  misguided  shade. 
Would  I  had  lent  my  doting  sense  to  thee  ! 
But  now  I  turn  to  thee,  a  willing  mark. 
Thine  arrows  miss  me  in  the  aimless  dark ! 


LXXXVI. 


"  O  doubly  cruel  ! — twice  misdoing  spite, 

But  I  will  guide  thee  with  my  helping  eyes. 

Or  walk  the  wide  world  through,  devoid  of  sight, 

Yet  thou  shalt  know  me  by  my  many  sighs. 

Nay,  then  thou  should'st  have  spared  my  rose,  false  Death, 

And  known  Love's  flow'r  by  smelling  his  sweet  breath  ; 


LXXXVII. 


"  Or,  when  thy  furious  rage  was  round  him  dealing, 
Love  should  have  grown  from  touching  of  his  skin, 
But  like  cold  marble  thou  art  all  unfeeling, 
And  hast  no  ruddy  springs  of  warmth  within, 
And  being  but  a  shape  of  freezing  bone, 
Thy  touching  only  turned  my  love  to  stone  ! 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  107 


LXXXVIII. 


"  And  here,  alas  !  he  lies  across  my  knees, 
With  cheeks  still  colder  than  the  stilly  wave, 
The  light  beneath  his  eyelids  seems  to  freeze, 
Here  then,  since  Love  is  dead  and  lacks  a  grave, 
O  come  and  dig  it  in  my  sad  heart's  core — 
That  wound  will  bring  a  balsam  for  its  sore ! 


LXXXIX. 


"  For  art  thou  not  a  sleep  where  sense  of  ill, 
Lies  stingless,  like  a  sense  benumb'd  with  cold, 
Healing  all  hurts  only  with  sleep's  good-will, 
So  shall  I  slumber,  and  perchance  behold 
My  living  love  in  dreams, — 0  happy  night, 
That  lets  me  company  his  banish'd  spright ! 


xc. 


«  O  poppy  Death  ! — sweet  poisoner  of  sleep  ! 
Where  shall  I  seek  for  thee,  oblivious  drug, 
That  I  may  steep  thee  in  my  drink,  and  creep 
Out  of  life's  coil.     Look,  Idol !  how  I  hug 
Thy  dainty  image  in  this  strict  embrace, 
And  kiss  this  clay-cold  model  of  thy  face ! 


XCT. 


"  Put  out,  put  out  these  sun-consuming  lamps, 
I  do  but  read  my  sorrows  by  their  shine, 
O  come  and  quench  them  with  thy  oozy  damps, 
And  let  my  darkness  intermix  with  thine ; 
Since  love  is  blinded,  wherefore  should  I  see 
Now  love  is  death,— death  will  be  love  to  me  ! 


108  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


XCII. 


"  Away,  away,  this  vain  complaining  breath. 
It  does  but  stir  the  troubles  that  I  weep. 
Let  it  be  hush'd  and  quieted,  sweet  Death, 
The  wind  must  settle  ere  the  wave  can  sleep, — 
Since  love  is  silent,  I  would  fain  be  mute, 
O  Death,  be  gracious  to  my  dying  suit !" 


xcm 


Thus  far  she  pleads,  but  pleading  naught  avails  her, 
For  Death,  her  sullen  burthen,  deigns  no  heed, 
Then  with  dumb  craving  arms,  since  darkness  fails  her, 
She  prays  to  heav'n's  fair  light,  as  if  her  need 
Inspir'd  her  there  were  Gods  to  pity  pain. 
Or  end  it, — but  she  lifts  her  arms  in  vain ! 


XCIV. 


Poor  gilded  Grief !  the  subtle  light  by  this 
With  mazy  gold  creeps  through  her  watery  mine, 
And,  diving  downward  through  the  green  abyss, 
Lights  up  her  palace  with  an  amber  shine  ; 
There,  falling  on  her  arms, — the  crystal  skin 
Reveals  the  ruby  tide  that  fares  within. 


xcv. 


Look  how  the  fulsome  beam  would  hang  a  glory 
On  her  dark  hair,  but  the  dark  hairs  repel  it ; 
Look  how  the  perjur'd  glow  suborns  a  story 
On  her  pale  lips,  but  lips  refuse  to  tell  it ; 
Grief  will  not  swerve  from  grief,  however  told 
On  coral  lips,  or  character'd  in  gold  ; 


HERO  AND  LEAIS'DER.  109 


XCVI. 

Or  else,  thou  maid !  safe  anchor'd  on  Love's  neck, 
Listing  the  hapless  doom  of  young  Leander, 
Thou  would'st  not  shed  a  tear  for  that  old  wreck, 
Sitting  secure  where  no  wild  surges  wander ; 
Whereas  the  woe  moves  on  with  tragic  pace. 
And  shows  its  sad  reflection  in  thy  face. 

XCVIl. 

Thus  havins;  travell'd  on,  and  track'd  the  tale, 
Like  the  due  course  of  an  old  bas-relief, 
Where  Tragedy  pursues  her  progress  pale, 
Brood  here  awhile  upon  that  sea-maid's  grief. 
And  take  a  deeper  imprint  from  the  frieze 
Of  that  young  Fate,  with  Death  upon  her  knees. 

XCVIII. 

Then  whilst  the  melancholy  muse  withal 
Resumes  her  music  in  a  sadder  tone, 
Meanwhile,  the  sunbeam  strikes  upon  the  wall, 
Conceive  that  lovely  siren  to  live  on, 
Ev'n  as  Hope  whisper'd,  the  Promethean  light 
Would  kindle  up  the  dead  Leander's  spright. 

xcix. 

"  'Tis  light,"  she  says,  "  that  feeds  the  glittering  stars. 
And  those  were  stars  set  in  his  heavenly  brow. 
But  this  salt  cloud,  this  cold  sea-vapor,  mars 
Their  radiant  breathing,  and  obscures  them  now, 
Therefore  I  '11  lay  him  in  the  clear  blue  air, 
And  see  how  these  dull  orbs  will  kindle  there." 


no  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


Swiftly  as  dolphins  glide,  or  swifter  yet, 
With  dead  Leander  in  her  fond  arms'  fold, 
She  cleaves  the  meshes  of  that  radiant  net. 
The  sun  hath  twin'd  above  of  liquid  gold, 
Nor  slacks,  till  on  the  margin  of  the  land, 
She  lays  his  body  on  the  glowing  sand. 

ei;   ■ 

There,  lilie  a  pearly  waif,  just  past  the  reach 
Of  foamy  billows  he  lies  cast.     Just  then. 
Some  listless  fishers,  straying  down  the  beach, 
Spy  out  this  wonder.     Thence  the  curious  men, 
Low  crouching,  creep  into  a  thicket  brake, 
And  watch  her  doings  till  their  rude  hearts  ache. 

en. 

First  she  begins  to  chafe  him  till  she  faints. 
Then  falls  upon  his  mouth  with  kisses  many. 
And  sometimes  pauses  in  her  own  complaints 
To  list  his  breathing,  but  there  is  not  any, — 
Then  looks  into  his  eyes  where  no  light  dwells, 
Light  makes  no  pictures  in  such  muddy  wells. 

cm. 

The  hot  sun  parches  his  discover'd  eyes, 

The  hot  sun  beats  on  his  discolor'd  limbs. 

The  sand  is  oozy  whereupon  he  lies, 

Soiling  his  fairness ; — then  away  she  swims. 

Meaning  to  gather  him  a  daintier  bed. 

Plucking  the  cool  fresh  weeds,  brown,  green,  and  red. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  lU 

CIV. 

But,  simple-witted  thief,  while  she  dives  under, 

Anothei'  robs  her  of  her  amorous  theft ; 

The  ambush'd  fishermen  creep  fortli  to  plunder, 

And  steal  the  unwatch'd  treasure  she  has  left ; 

Only  his  void  impression  dints  the  sands  ; 

Leander  is  purloin'd  by  stealthy  hands  !  • 

cv. 

Lo !  how  she  shudders  off  the  beaded  wave  ! 

Like  Grief  all  over  tears,  and  senseless  falls. 

His  void  imprint  seems  hoUow'd  for  her  grave,  , 

Then,  rising  on  her  knees,  looks  round  and  calls        ■■ 

On  Hero  !  Hero  !  having  learn'd  this  name 

Of  his  last  breath,  she  calls  him  by  the  same. 

cvi. 

Then  with  her  frantic  hands  she  rends  her  hairs, 
And  casts  them  forth,  sad  keepsakes  to  the  wind, 
As  if  in  plucking  those  she  pluck'd  her  cares; 
But  grief  lies  deeper,  and  remains  behind 
Like  a  barb'd  arrow,  rankling  in  her  brain, 
Turning  her  very  thoughts  to  throbs  of  pain. 

cvii. 

Anon  her  tangled  locks  are  left  alone. 
And  down  upon  the  sand  she  meekly  sits. 
Hard  by  the  foam  as  humble  as  a  stone. 
Like  an  enchanted  maid  beside  her  wits. 
That  ponders  with  a  look  serene  and  tragic, 
Stunn'd  by  the  mighty  mystery  of  magic. 


112  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


CVIII. 

Or  think  of  Ariadne's  utter  trance, 

Craz'd  by  the  flight  of  that  disloyal  traitor, 

Who  left  her  gazing  on  the  green  expanse 

That  svvallow'd  up  his  track, — yet  this  would  mate  her, 

Ev'n  in  the  cloudy  summit  of  her  woe, 

When  o'er  the  far  sea-brim  she  saw  him  go. 


cix. 


For  even  so  she  bows,  and  bends  her  gaze 

O'er  the  eternal  waste,  as  if  to  sum 

Its  waves  by  weary  thousands  all  her  days. 

Dismally  doom'd  !  meanwhile  the  billows  come, 

And  coldly  dabble  with  her  quiet  feet, 

Like  any  bleaching  stones  they  wont  to  greet. 


ex. 


And  thence  into  her  lap  have  boldly  sprung, 

Washing  her  weedy  tresses  to  and  fro. 

That  round  her  crouching  knees  have  darkly  hung, 

But  she  sits  careless  of  waves'  ebb  and  flow. 

Like  a  lone  beacon  on  a  desert  coast. 

Showing  where  all  her  hope  was  wreck'd  and  lost. 


CXI. 


Yet  whether  in  the  sea  or  vaulted  sky. 
She  knoweth  not  her  love's  abrupt  resort. 
So  like  a  shape  of  dreams  he  left  her  eye. 
Winking  with  doubt.     Meanwhile,  the  churl's  report 
Has  throng'd  the  beach  with  many  a  curious  face, 
That  peeps  upon  her  from  its  hiding-place. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  113 

CXII. 

And  here  a  head,  and  there  a  brow  half  seen, 

Dodges  behind  a  rock.     Here  on  his  hands,  ; 

A  mariner  his  crumpled  cheeks  doth  lean 

Over  a  rugged  crest.     Another  stands. 

Holding  his  harmful  arrow  at  the  head, 

Still  check'd  by  human  caution  and  strange  dread. 

CXIII. 

One  stops  his  ears, — another  close  beholder 

Whispers  unto  the  next  his  grave  surmise ; 

This  crouches  down, — and  just  above  his  shoulder, 

A  woman's  pity  saddens  in  her  eyes, 

And  prompts  her  to  befriend  that  lonely  grief, 

With  all  sweet  helps  of  sisterly  relief. 

cxiv. 

And  down  the  sunny  beach  she  paces  slowly,  •> 

With  many  doubtful  pauses  by  the  way  ; 
Grief  hath  an  influence  so  hush'd  and  holy, — 
Making  her  twice  attempt,  ere  she  can  lay 
Her  hand  upon  that  sea-maid's  shoulder  white, 
Which  makes  her  startle  up  in  wild  affright. 

CXV. 

And,  like  a  seal,  she  leaps  into  the  wave 
That  drowns  the  shrill  remainder  of  her  scream  ; 
Anon  the  sea  fills  up  the  watery  cave. 
And  seals  her  exit  with  a  foamy  seam, — 
Leaving  those  bafllr-d  gazers  on  the  beach. 
Turning  in  uncouth  wonder  each  to  each. 


114  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


CXVI. 


Some  watch,  some  call,  some  see  her  head  emerge, 
Wherever  a  brown  weed  falls  through  the  foam ; 
Some  point  to  white  eruptions  of  the  surge : — 
But  she  is  vanish'd  to  her  shady  home, 
Under  the  deep,  inscrutable, — and  there 
Weeps  in  a  midnight  made  of  her  own  hair. 

CXVII. 

Now  here,  the  sighing  winds,  before  unheard, 
Forth  from  their  cloudy  caves  begin  to  blow, 
Till  all  the  surface  of  the  deep  is  stirr'd. 
Like  to  the  panting  grief  it  hides  below  ; 
And  heav'n  is  cover'd  with  a  stormy  rack, 
Soiling  the  waters  with  its  inky  black. 

cxvni. 

The  screaming  fowl  resigns  her  finny  prey, 
And  labors  shoreward  with  a  bending  wing. 
Rowing  against  the  wind  her  toilsome  way ; 
Meanwhile,  the  curling  billows  chafe,  and  fling 
Their  dewy  frost  still  further  on  the  stones. 
That  answer  to  the  wind  with  hollow  groans. 

CXIX. 

And  here  and  there  a  fisher's  far-off  bark 
Flies  with  tlie  sun's  last  glimpse  upon  its  sail. 
Like  a  bright  flame  amid  the  waters  dark, 
Watch'd  with  the  hope  and  fear  of  maidens  pale  ; 
And  anxious  mothers  that  upturn  their  brows, 
Freigliting  the  gusty  wind  with  frequent  vows, 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  115 

cxx. 

For  that  the  horrid  deep  has  no  sure  track 

To  guide  love  safe  into  his  homely  haven.  ■ 

And  lo !  the  storm  gi'ows  blacker  in  its  wrath, 

O'er  the  dark  billow  brooding  like  a  raven, 

That  bodes  of  death  and  widow's  sorrowing,      ^     - 

Under  the  dusky  covert  of  his  wing. 

CXXI. 

■  • 
And  so  day  ended.     But  no  vesper  spark 
Hung  forth  its  heavenly  sign  ;  but  sheets  of  flame 
Play'd  round  the  savage  features  of  the  dark, 
Makino-  nisht  horrible.     That  night,  there  came 
A  weeping  maiden  to  high  Sestos'  steep. 
And  tore  her  hair  and  gaz'd  upon  the  deep. 

CXXII. 

And  wav'd  aloft  her  bright  and  ruddy  torch. 
Whose  flame  the  boastful  wind  so  rudely  fann'd, 
That  oft  it  would  recoil,  and  basely  scorch 
The  tender  covert  of  her  sheltering  hand ; 
Which  yet,  for  love's  dear  sake,  disdain'd  retire, 
And,  like  a  glorying  martyr,  brav'd  the  fire. 

cxxiir. 

For  that  was  love's  own  sign  and  beacon  guide 

Across  the  Hellespont's  wide  weary  space, 

Wherein  he  nightly  struggled  with  the  tide; 

Look  what  a  red  it  forges  on  her  face, 

As  if  she  blush'd  at  holding  such  a  light, 

Ev'n  in  the  unseen  presence  of  the  night '  • 


116  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


CXXIV 


Whereas  her  tragic  cheek  is  truly  pale, 

And  colder  than  the  rude  and  ruffian  air 

That  howls  into  her  ear  a  horrid  tale 

Of  storm,  and  wreck,  and  uttermost  despair, 

Saying,  "  Leander  floats  amid  the  surge, 

And  those  are  dismal  waves  that  sing  his  dirge." 


cxxv. 


And  hark ! — a  grieving  voice,  trembling  and  faint, 
Blends  with  the  hollow  sobbincs  of  the  sea : 
Like  the  sad  music  of  a  siren's  plaint, 
But  shriller  than  Leander's  voice  should  be. 
Unless  the  wintry  death  had  changed  its  tone, — 
Wherefore  she  thinks  she  hears  his  spirit  moan. 


CXXVI. 


For  now,  upon  each  brief  and  breathless  pause. 
Made  by  the  raging  winds,  it  plainly  calls. 
On  Hero  !  Hero  ! — whereupon  she  draws 
Close  to  the  dizzy  brink,  that  ne'er  appals 
Her  brave  and  constant  spirit  to  recoil, 
However  the  wild  billows  toss  and  toil. 


CXXVII. 


"  Oh !  dost  thou  live  under  the  deep,  deep  sea  ? 
I  thought  such  love  as  thine  could  never  die ; 
If  thou  hast  gain'd  an  immortality. 
From  the  kind  pitying  sea-god,  so  will  I ; 
And  this  false  cruel  tide  that  used  to  sever 
Our  hearts,  shall  be  our  common  home  for  ever ! 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  117 


CXXVIII. 


"  There  we  will  sit  and  sport  upon  one  billow, 
And  sing  our  ocean  ditties  all  the  day, 
And  lie  together  on  the  same  green  pillow. 
That  curls  above  us  with  its  dewy  spray ; 
And  ever  in  one  presence  live  and  dwell, 
Like  two  twin  pearls  within  the  selfsame  shell. 


CXXIX. 


One  moment  then,  upon  the  dizzy  verge 

She  stands  ; — with  face  upturn'd  against  the  sky  ; 

A  moment  more,  upon  the  foamy  surge 

She  gazes,  with  a  calm  despairing  eye ; 

Feeling  that  awful  pause  of  blood  and  breath 

Which  life  endures  when  it  confronts  with  death  ;- 


cxxx. 


Then  from  the  giddy  steep  she  madly  springs, 

Grasping  her  maiden  robes,  that  vainly  kept 

Panting  abroad,  like  unavailing  wings. 

To  save  her  from  her  death. — The  sea-maid  wept, 

And  in  a  crystal  cave  her  cross  enshrin'd. 

No  meaner  sepulchre  should  Hero  find  ! 


LYCUS,    THE    CENTAUR. 

1827. 


I 

TO 


J.  H.  REYNOLDS,  ESQ. 


My  dear  Reynolds, 

You  will  remember  "  Lycus." — It  was  written  in  the  pleasant  spring- 
time of  our  friendship,  and  I  am  glad  to  maintain  that  association,  by  con- 
necting your  name  with  the  Poem.  It  will  gratify  me  to  find  that  you 
regard  it  with  the  old  partiality  for  the  writings  of  each  other,  which 
prevailed  in  those  days  For  my  own  sake,  I  must  regret  that  your  pen 
goes  now  into  far  other  records  than  those  which  used  to  delight  me 

Your  true  Friend  and  Brother, 

T.  HOOD. 


LYCUS,  THE   CENTAUR. 


FEOM    AN    UNKOLLED    MANUSCRIPT    OF    APOLLONIUS    CUEITIS. 


THE    ARGUMENT. 


Lycus,  detained  by  Circe  in  her  magical  dominion,  is  beloved  by  a  Water 
Nymph,  who,  desiring  to  render  him  immortal,  has  recourse  to  the  Sorce- 
ress. Circe  gives  her  an  incantation  to  pronounce,  which  should  turn 
Lycus  into  a  horse  ;  but  the  horrible  effect  of  the  charm  causing  her  to 
break  off  in  the  midst,  he  becomes  a  Centaur. 

Who  hath  ever  been  lured  and  bound  by  a  spell 

To  wander,  fore-doom'd,  in  that  circle  of  hell 

Where  Witchery  works  with  her  will  like  a  god, 

Works  more  than  the  wonders  of  time  at  a  nod, — 

At  a  word, — at  a  touch, — at  a  flash  of  the  eye, 

But  each  form  is  a  cheat,  and  each  sound  is  a  lie, 

Things  bom  of  a  wish — to  endure  for  a  thought, 

Or  last  for  long  ages — to  vanish  to  naught. 

Or  put  on  new  semblance  ?     O  Jove,  I  had  given 

The  throne  of  a  kingdom  to  know  if  that  heaven, 

And  the  earth  and  its  streams  were  of  Circe,  or  whether 

They  kept  the  world's  birth-day  and  brighten'd  together ! 

For  I  lov'd  them  in  terror  and  constantly  dreaded 

That  the  earth  where  I  trod,  and  the  cave  where  I  bedded, 

The  face  I  might  dote  on,  should  live  out  the  lease 

Of  the  charm  that  created,  and  suddenly  cease : 

7 


122  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


And  I  gave  me  to  slumber,  as  if  from  one  dream 

To  another — each  horrid — and  drank  of  the  stream 

Like  a  first  taste  of  blood,  lest  as  water  I  quaff 'd 

Swift  poison,  and  never  should  breathe  from  the  draught, — 

Such  drink  as  her  own  monarch  husband  drain'd  up 

When  he  pledg'd  her,  and  Fate  clos'd  his  eyes  in  the  cup. 

And  I  pluck'd  of  the  fruit  with  held  breath,  and  a  fear 

Tliat  the  branch  would  start  back  and  scream  out  in  my  ear : 

For  once,  at  my  suppering,  I  pluck'd  in  the  dusk 

An  apple,  juice-gushing  and  fragrant  of  musk  ; 

But  by  daylight  my  fingers  were  crimson'd  with  gore, 

And  the  half-eaten  fragment  was  flesh  at  the  core ; 

And  once — only  once — for  the  love  of  its  blush, 

I  broke  a  bloom  bough,  but  there  came  such  a  gush 

On  my  hand,  that  it  fainted  away  in  weak  fright. 

While  the  leaf-hidden  woodpecker  shriek'd  at  the  sight ; 

And  oh  !  such  an  agony  thrill'd  in  that  note. 

That  my  soul,  startling  up,  beat  its  wings  in  my  throat, 

As  it  long'd  to  be  free  of  a  body  whose  hand 

Was  doom'd  to  work  torments  a  Fury  had  plann'd  ! 

There  I  stood  without  stir,  yet  how  willing  to  flee, 
As  if  rooted  and  horror-turn'd  into  a  tree, — 
Oh  !  for  innocent  death, — and  to  suddenly  win  it, 
I  drank  of  tlie  stream,  but  no  poison  was  in  it ; 
I  plung'd  in  its  waters,  but  ere  I  could  sink. 
Some  invisible  fate  pull'd  me  back  to  the  brink  ; 
1  sprang  from  the  rock,  from  its  pinnacle  height, 
But  fell  on  the  grass  with  a  grasshopper's  flight ; 
I  ran  at  my  fears — they  were  fears  and  no  more, 
For  the  bear  would  not  mangle  my  limbs,  nor  the  boar, 
But  moan'd, — all  their  brutaliz'd  flesh  could  not  smother 
The  horrible  truth, — we  were  kin  to  each  other  ! 


LYCUS,  THE  CEA^TAUR.  123 


They  were  mournfully  gentle,  and  group'd  for  relief 
All  foes  in  their  skin,  but  all  friends  in  their  grief: 
The  leopard  was  there, — baby-mild  in  its  feature ; 
And  the  tiger,  black  barr'd,  with  the  gaze  of  a  creature 
Tliat  knew  gentle  pity  ;  the  bristle-back'd  boar, 
His  innocent  tusks  stain'd  with  mulberry  gore  ; 
And  the  laughing  hyena — but  laughing  no  more  ; 
And  the  snake,  not  with  magical  orbs  to  devise 
Strange  death,  but  with  woman's  attraction  of  eyes  j 
The  tall  ugly  ape,  that  still  bore  a  dim  shine 
Through  his  hairy  eclipse  of  a  manhood  divine  ; 
And  the  elephant  stately,  with  more  than  its  reason, 
How  thoughtful  in  sadness !  but  this  is  no  season 
To  reckon  them  up  from  the  lag-bellied  toad 
To  the  mammoth,  whose  sobs  shook  his  ponderous  load. 
There  were  woes  of  all  shapes,  wretched  forms,  when  I  came, 
That  hung  down  their  heads  with  a  human-like  shame  ; 
The  elephant  hid  in  the  boughs,  and  the  bear 
Shed  over  his  eyes  the  dark  veil  of  his  hair ; 
And  the  womanly  soul  turning  sick  with  disgust, 
Tried  to  vomit  herself  from  her  serpentine  crust ; 
While  all  groaned  their  groans  into  one  at  their  lot, 
As  1  brought  them  the  image  of  what  they  were  not. 

Then  rose  a  wild  sound  of  the  human  voice  choking 
Through  vile  brutal  organs — low  tremulous  croaking  ; 
Cries  swallow'd  abruptly — deep  animal  tones 
Attun'd  to  strange  passion,  and  full  utter'd  groans ; 
All  shuddering  weaker,  till  hush'd  in  a  pause 
Of  tongues  in  mute  motion  and  wide-yearning  jaws  ; 
And  I  guess'd  that  those  horrors  were  meant  to  tell  o'er 
The  tale  of  their  woes  ;  but  the  silence  told  more 
That  writhed  on  their  tongues ;  and  I  knelt  on  the  sod, 


124  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


And  pray'd  with  my  voice  to  the  cloud-stirring  God, 

For  the  sad  congregation  of  supplicants  there, 

That  upturn'd  to  his  heaven  brute  faces  of  prayer ; 

And  I  ceased,  and  they  utter'd  a  moaning  so  deep 

That  J  wept  for  my  heart-ease — but  they  could  not  weep, 

And  gazed  with  red  eye-balls,  all  wistfully  dry. 

At  the  comfort  of  tears  in  a  stag's  human  eye. 

Then  I  motion'd  them  round,  and,  to  soothe  their  distress, 

I  caress'd,  and  they  bent  them  to  meet  my  caress. 

Their  necks  to  my  arm,  and  their  heads  to  my  palm. 

And  with  poor  grateful  eyes  suffered  meekly  and  calm 

Those  tokens  of  kindness,  withheld  by  hard  fate 

From  returns  that  might  chill  the  warm  pity  to  hate ; 

So  they  passively  bow'd — save  the  serpent,  that  leapt 

To  my  breast  like  a  sister,  and  pressingly  crept 

In  embrace  of  my  neck,  and  with  close  kisses  blister'd 

My  lips  in  rash  love, — then  drew  backward,  and  glister'd 

Her  eyes  in  my  face,  and  loud  hissing  affright, 

Dropt  down,  and  swift  started  away  from  my  sight ! 

This  sorrow  was  theirs,  but  thrice  wretched  my  lot, 
Turn'd  brute  in  my  soul,  though  my  body  was  not, 
When  I  fled  from  the  sorrow  of  womanly  faces. 
That  shrouded  their  woe  in  the  shade  of  lone  places. 
And  dash'd  off  bright  tears,  till  their  fingers  were  wet, 
And  then  wiped  their  lids  with  long  tresses  of  jet : 
But  I  fled — though  they  stretch'd  out  their  hands,  all  entangled 
With  hair,  and  blood-stain 'd  of  the  breasts  they  had  mangled, — 
Though  they  call'd — ajid  perchance  but  to  ask,  had  I  seen 
Their  loves,  or  to  tell  the  vile  wrongs  that  had  been : 
But  I  stay'd  not  to  hear,  lest  the  story  should  hold 
Some  hell-form  of  words,  some  enchantment  once  told, 
Might  translate  me  in  flesh  to  a  brute ;  and  I  dreaded 


LYCUS,  THE  CENTAUR.  125 

''o  gaze  on  their  charms,  lest  my  faith  should  be  wedded 

Vith  some  pity, — and  love  in  that  pity  perchance — 

'o  a  thing  not  all  lovely ;  for  once  at  a  glance 

[ethought,  where  one  sat,  I  descried  a  bright  wonder 

'hat  flow'd  like  a  long  silver  rivulet  under 

'he  long  fenny  grass,  with  so  lovely  a  breast, 

ould  it  be  a  snake-tail  made  the  charm  of  the  rest  ? 

So  I  roam'd  in  that  circle  of  horrors,  and  Fear 
l^alk'd  with  me,  by  hills,  and  in  valleys,  and  near 
luster'd  trees  for  their  gloom — not  to  shelter  from  heat — 
ut  lest  a  brute-shadow  should  grow  at  my  feet ; 
.nd  besides  that  full  oft  in  the  sunshiny  place, 
'ark  shadows  would  gather  like  clouds  on  its  face, 
1  the  horrible  likeness  of  demons  (that  none 
ould  see,  like  invisible  flames  in  the  sun) ; 
ut  grew  to  one  monster  that  seized  on  the  light, 
like  the  dragon  that  strangles  the  moon  in  the  night; 
ierce  sphinxes,  long  serpents,  and  asps  of  the  South  ; 
i^ild  birds  of  huge  beak,  and  all  horrors  that  drouth 
ingenders  of  slime  in  the  land  of  the  pest, 
ile  shapes  without  shape,  and  foul  bats  of  the  West, 
rinofing  Nijrht  on  their  wings :  and  the  bodies  wherein 

ODD  O       ' 

rreat  Brahma  imprisons  the  spirits  of  sin, 
[any-handed,  that  blent  in  one  phantom  of  fight 
like  a  Titan,  and  threatfully  warr'd  with  the  light ; 
have  heard  the  wild  shriek  that  gave  signal  to  close, 
^^hcn  they  rush'd  on  that  shadowy  Python  of  foes, 
'hat  met  with  sharp  beaks  and  wide  gaping  of  jaws, 
^ith  flappings  of  wings,  and  fierce  grasping  of  claws, 
ind  whirls  of  long  tails : — I  have  seen  the  quick  flutter 
)f  fragments  dissever'd, — and  necks  stretch'd  to  utter 
long  screamings  of  pain, — the  swifl  motion  of  blows, 


126  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


And  wrestling  of  arms — to  the  flight  at  the  close, 
When  the  dust  of  the  earth  startled  upward  in  rings, 
And  flew  on  the  whirlwind  that  follow'd  their  wings. 

Thus  they  fled — not  forgotten — luit  often  to  grow 
Like  fears  in  my  eyes,  when  I  v/alk'd  to  and  fro 
In  the  shadows,  and  felt  from  some  beings  unseen 
The  warm  touch  of  kisses,  but  clean  or  unclean 
I  knew  not,  nor  whether  the  love  1  had  won 
Was  of  heaven  or  hell — till  one  day  in  the  sun, 
In  its  very  noon-blaze,  I  could  fancy  a  thing 
Of  beauty,  but  faint  as  the  cloud-mirrors  fling 
On  the  gaze  of  the  shepherd  that  watches  the  sky, 
Half-seen  and  half-dream'd  in  the  soul  of  his  eye. 
And  when  in  my  musings  I  gaz'd  on  the  stream. 
In  motionless  trances  of  thought,  there  would  seem 
A  face  like  that  face,  looking  upward  through  mine  ; 
With  its  eyes  full  of  love,  and  the  dim-drowned  shine 
Of  limbs  and  fair  garments,  like  clouds  in  that  blue 
Serene  : — there  I  stood  for  long  hours  but  to  view 
Those  fond  earnest  eyes  that  were  ever  uplifted 
Towards  me,  and  wink'd  as  the  water-weed  drifted 
Between  ;  but  the  fish  knew  that  presence,  and  plied 
Their  long  curvy  tails,  and  swift  darted  aside. 

There  I  gazed  for  lost  time,  and  forgot  all  the  thino-s 
That  once  had  been  wonders — the  fishes  with  wings, 
And  the  glimmer  of  magnified  eyes  that  look'd  up 
From  the  glooms  of  the  bottom  like  pearls  in  a  cup, 
And  the  huge  endless  serpent  of  silvery  gleam, 
Slow  winding  along  like  a  tide  in  the  stream. 
Some  maid  of  the  waters,  some  Naiad,  methought 
Held  me  dear  in  the  pearl  of  her  eye — and  I  brought 


LYCUS,  THE  CENTAUR.  127 


My  wish  to  that  fancy ;  and  often  I  dash'd 
My  limbs  in  the  water,  and  suddenly  splash'd 
The  cool  drops  around  me,  yet  clung  to  the  brink, 
Chill'd  by  watery  fears,  how  that  Beauty  might  sink 
With  my  life  in  her  arms  to  her  garden,  and  bind  me 
With  its  long  tangled  grasses,  or  cruelly  wind  me 
In  some  eddy  to  hum  out  my  life  in  her  ear, 
Like  a  spider-caught  bee, — and  in  aid  of  that  fear 
Came  the  tardy  remembrance — Oh  falsest  of  men  ! 
Why  was  not  that  beauty  remember'd  till  then  ? 
My  love,  my  safe  love,  whose  glad  life  would  have  run    - 
Into  muie — like  a  drop — that  our  fate  might  be  one. 
That  now,  even  now, — may-be, — clasp'd  in  a  dream. 
That  form  which  I  gave  to  some  jilt  of  the  stream. 
And  gaz'd  with  fond  eyes  that  her  tears  tried  to  smother 
On  a  mock  of  those  eyes  that  I  gave  to  another ! 

Then  I  rose  from  the  stream,  but  the  eyes  of  my  mind, 
Still  full  of  the  tempter,  kept  gazing  behind 
On  her  crj^stalline  face,  while  I  painfully  leapt 
To  the  bank,  and  shook  off  the  curst  waters,  and  wept 
With  my  brow  in  the  reeds ;  and  the  reeds  to  my  ear 
Bow'd,  bent  by  no  wind,  and  in  whispers  of  fear, 
Growing  small  with  large  secrets,  foretold  me  of  one 
That  loved  me, — but  oh  to  fly  from  her,  and  shun 
Her  love  like  a  pest — though  her  love  was  as  true 
To  mine  as  her  stream  to  the  heavenly  blue  ; 
For  why  should  I  love  her  with  love  that  would  bring 
All  misfortune,  like  Hate,  on  so  joyous  a  thing  ? 
Bfcause  of  her  rival, — even  Her  whose  witch-face 
I  had  slighted,  and  therefore  was  doom'd  in  that  place    . 
To  roam,  and  had  roam'd,  where  all  horrors  grew  rank, 
Nine  days  ere  I  wept  with  my  brow  on  that  bank  ; 


12S  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


Her  name  be  not  named,  but  her  spite  would  not  fail 
To  our  love  like  a  blight ;  and  they  told  me  the  tale 
Of  Scylla,  and  Picus,  imprison'd  to  speak 
His  shrill-sci'eaming  woe  through  a  woodpecker's  beak. 

Then  they  ceased — I  had  heard  as  the  voice  of  my  star 
That  told  me  the  truth  of  my  fortunes — thus  far 
I  had  read  of  my  sorrow,  and  lay  in  the  hush 
Of  deep  meditation, — when  lo  !  a  light  crush 
Of  the  reeds,  and  I  turn'd  and  look'd  round  in  the  night 
Of  new  sunshine,  and  saw,  as  I  sipp'd  of  the  light 
Narrow-winking,  the  realized  nymph  of  the  stream, 
Rising  up  from  the  wave  with  the  bend  and  the  gleam 
Of  a  fountain,  and  o'er  her  white  arms  she  kept  throwing 
Bright  torrents  of  hair,  that  went  flowing  and  flowing 
In  falls  to  her  feet,  aud  the  blue  waters  roll'd 
Down  her  limbs  like  a  garment,  in  many  a  fold. 
Sun-spangled,  gold-broider'd,  and  fled  far  behind, 
Like  an  infinite  train.     So  she  came  and  reclin'd 
In  the  reeds,  and  I  hunger'd  to  see  her  unseal 
The  buds  of  her  eyes  that  would  ope  and  reveal 
The  blue  that  was  in  them  ;  and  they  op'd,  and  she  rais'd 
Two  orbs  of  pui'e  crystal,  and  timidly  gazed 
With  her  eyes  on  my  eyes ;  but  their  color  and  shine 
Was  of  that  which  they  look'd  on,  and  mostly  of  mine — 
For  she  loved  me, — except  when  she  blush'd,  and  they  sank, 
Shame-humbled,  to  number  the  stones  on  the  bank. 
Or  her  play-idle  fingers,  while  lisping  she  told  me 
How  she  put  on  her  veil,  and  in  love  to  behold  me. 
Would  wing  through  the  sun  till  she  fainted  away 
Like  a  mist,  and  then  flew  to  her  waters  and  lay 
In  love-patience  long  hours,  and  sore  dazzled  her  eyes 
In  watching  for  mine  'gainst  the  midsummer  skies. 


LYCUS,  THE  CENTAUR.  129 

But  now  they  were  heal'd, — O  my  heart,  it  still  dances 

When  I  think  of  the  charm  of  her  changeable  glances, 

A.nd  my  image  how  small  when  it  sank  in  the  deep 

Of  her  eyes  where  her  soul  was, — Alas  !  now  they  weep, 

A.nd  none  knoweth  where.     In  what  stream  do  her  eyes 

Shed  invisible  tears  ?     Who  beholds  where  her  sighs 

Flow  in  eddies,  or  sees  the  ascent  of  the  leaf 

She  has  pluck'd  with  her  tresses  ?     Who  listens  her  grief 

Like  a  far  fall  of  waters,  or  hears  where  her  feet 

Grow  emphatic  among  the  loose  pebbles,  and  beat 

rhem  together  ?     Ah  !  surely  her  flowers  float  adown 

ro  the  sea  unaccepted,  and  little  ones  drown 

For  need  of  her  mercy, — even  he  whose  twin-brother 

Will  miss  him  for  ever  ;  and  the  sorrowful  mother 

[mploreth  in  vain  for  his  body  to  kiss 

\nd  cling  to,  all  dripping  and  cold  as  it  is,  -^ 

Because  that  soft  pity  is  lost  in  hard  pain  ! 

We  loved, — how  we  loved  ! — for  I  thought  not  again 

[)f  the  woes  that  were  whisper'd  like  fears  in  that  place 

[f  I  gave  me  to  beauty.     Her  face  was  the  face 

Far  away,  and  her  eyes  were  the  eyes  that  were  drown'd 

For  my  absence, — her  arms  were  the  arms  that  sought  round, 

\nd  clasp'd  me  to  naught ;   for  I  gazed  and  became 

3nly  true  to  my  falsehood,  and  had  but  one  name 

For  two  loves,  and  call'd  ever  on  JEg\e,  sweet  maid 

3f  the  sky-loving  waters, — and  was  not  afraid 

Df  the  sight  of  her  skin  ; — for  it  never  could  be, 

Her  beauty  and  love  were  misfortunes  to  me  ! 

Thus  our  bliss  had  endured  for  a  time-shorten'd  space, 
Like  a  day  made  of  three,  and  the  smile  of  her  face 
Had  been  with  me  for  joy, — when  she  told  me  indeed 
Her  love  was  self-task'd  with  a  work  that  would  need 


130  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


Some  short  hours,  for  in  truth  'twas  the  veriest  pity 

Our  love  should  not  last,  and  then  sang  me  a  ditty, 

Of  one  with  warm  lips  that  should  love  her,  and  love  her 

When  suns  were  burnt  dim  and  long  ages  past  over. 

So  she  fled  with  her  voice,  and  I  patiently  nested 

My  limbs  in  the  reeds,  in  still  quiet,  and  rested 

Till  my  thoughts  grew  extinct,  and  I  sank  in  a  sleep 

Of  dreams, — but  their  meaning  was  hidden  too  deep 

To  be  read  what  their  woe  was  ; — but  still  it  was  woe 

That  was  writ  on  all  faces  that  swam  to  and  fro 

In  that  river  of  night ; — and  the  gaze  of  their  eyes 

Was  sad, — and  the  bend  of  their  brows, — and  their  cries 

Were  seen,  but  I  heard  not.     The  warm  touch  of  tears 

Travell'd  down  my  cold  cheeks,  and  I  shook  till  my  fears 

Awaked  me,  and  lo  !  I  was  couch'd  in  a  bowser, 

The  growth  of  long  summers  rear'd  up  in  an  hour ! 

Then  I  said,  in  the  fear  of  my  dream,  I  will  fly 

From  this  magic,  but  could  not,  because  that  my  eye 

Grew  love-idle  among  the  rich  blooms ;  and  the  earth 

Held  me  down  with  its  coolness  of  touch,  and  the  mirth 

Of  some  bird  was  above  me, — who,  even  in  fear, 

Would  startle  the  thrush  ?  and  methought  there  drew  near 

A  form  as  of  -^gle, — but  it  was  not  the  face 

Hope  made,  and  I  know  the  witch-Queen  of  that  place, 

Even  Circe  the  Cruel,  that  came  like  a  Death 

Which  I  fear'd,  and  yet  fled  not,  for  want  of  my  breath. 

There  was  thought  in  her  face,  and  her  eyes  were  not  raised 

From  the  grass  at  her  foot,  but  I  saw,  as  I  gazed, 

Her  spite — and  her  countenance  changed  with  her  mind 

As  she  plann'd  how  to  thrall  me  with  beauty,  and  bind 

My  soul  to  her  charms, — and  her  long  tresses  play'd 

From  shade  into  shine  and  from  shine  into  shade, 

Like  a  day  in  mid-autumn, — first  fair,  O  how  fair  ! 


LYCUS,  THE  CENTAUR.  131 

With  long  snaky  locks  of  the  adder-black  haii- 

That  clung  round  her  neck, — those  dark  locks  that  I  prize, 

For  the  sake  of  a  maid  that  once  loved  me  with  eyes 

Of  that  fathomless  hue, — but  they  changed  as  they  roU'd, 

And  brighten'd,  and  suddenly  blazed  into  gold 

That  she  comb'd  into  flames,  and  the  locks  that  fell  down 

Turn'd  dark  as  they  fell,  but  I  slighted  their  brown. 

Nor  loved,  till  I  saw  the  light  ringlets  shed  wild, 

That  innocence  wears  when  she  is  but  a  child  ; 

And  her  eyes, — O  I  ne'er  had  been  witch'd  with  their  shine, 

Had  they  been  any  other,  my  iEgle,  than  thine  ! 

Then  I  gave  me  to  magic,  and  gazed  till  I  madden'd 
In  the  full  of  their  light, — but  I  sadden'd  and  sadden'd 
The  deeper  I  look'd, — till  I  sank  on  the  snow 
Of  her  bosom,  a  thing  made  of  terror  and  woe. 
And  answer'd  its  throb  with  the  shudder  of  fears. 
And  hid  my  cold  eyes  from  her  eyes  with  my  tears, 
And  strain'd  her  white  arms  with  the  still  languid  weight 
Of  a  fainting  distress.     There  she  sat  like  the  Fate 
That  is  nurse  unto  Death,  and  bent  over  in  shame 
To  hide  me  from  her — the  true  Mg\e — that  came 
With  the  words  on  her  lips  the  false  witch  had  foregiv'n 
To  make  me  immortal — for  now  I  was  even 
At  the  portals  of  Death,  who  but  waited  the  hush 
Of  world-sounds  in  my  ear  to  cry  welcome,  and  rush 
With  my  soul  to  the  banks  of  his  black-flowing  river. 
O  would  it  had  flown  from  my  body  for  ever, 
Ere  I  listen'd  those  words,  when  1  felt  with  a  start. 
The  life-blood  rush  back  in  one  throb  to  my  heart. 
And  saw  the  pale  lip;,  where  the  rest  of  that  spell 
Had  perish'd  in  horror — and  heard  the  farewell 
Of  that  voice  that  was  drown'd  in  the  dash  of  the  stream ! 


132  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


How  fain  had  I  follow'd,  and  plunged  with  that  scream 

Into  death,  but  my  being  indignantly  lagg'd 

Through  the  brutaliz'd  flesh  that  I  painfully  dragg'd 

Behind  me  : — "  O  Circe  !  O  mother  of  Spite  ! 

Speak  the  last  of  that  curse !  and  imprison  me  quite 

In  the  husk  of  a  brute, — that  no  pity  may  name 

The  man  that  I  was, — that  no  kindred  may  claim 

The  monster  I  am  !  Let  me  utterly  be 

Brute-buried,  and  Nature's  dishonor  with  me 

Uninscribed  !" — But  she  listen'd  my  prayer,  that  was  praise 

To  her  malice,  with  smiles,  and  advised  me  to  gaze 

On  the  river  for  love, — and  perchance  she  would  make 

In  pity  a  maid  without  eyes  for  my  sake. 

And  she  left  me  like  Scorn.     Then  I  ask'd  of  the  wave, 

What  monster  I  was,  and  it  trembled  and  gave 

The  true  shape  of  my  grief,  and  I  turn'd  with  my  face 

From  all  waters  for  ever,  and  fled  through  that  place, 

Till  with  horror  more  strong  than  all  magic  I  pass'd 

Its  bounds,  and  the  world  was  before  me  at  last. 

There  I  wander'd  in  sorrow,  and  shunn'd  the  abodes 
Of  men,  that  stood  up  in  the  likeness  of  Gods, 
But  I  saw  from  afar  the  warm  shine  of  the  sun 
On  their  cities,  where  man  was  a  million,  not  one ; 
And  I  saw  the  white  smoke  of  their  altars  ascending, 
That  show'd  where  the  hearts  of  the  many  were  blending, 
And  the  wind  in  my  face  brought  shrill  voices  that  came 
From  the  trumpets  that  gather'd  whole  bands  in  one  fame 
As  a  chorus  of  man, — and  they  stream'd  from  the  gates 
Like  a  dusky  libation  pour'd  out  to  the  Fates. 
But  at  times  there  were  gentler  processions  of  peace 
That  I  watch'd  with  my  soul  in  my  eyes  till  their  cease. 
There  were  women !  there  men !  but  to  me  a  third  sex 


LYCUS,  THE  CENTAUR.  133 


I  saw  them  all  dots — yet  I  loved  them  as  specks : 

And  oft  to  assuage  a  sad  yearning  of  eyes 

I  stole  near  the  city,  but  stole  covert-wise 

Like  a  wild  beast  of  love,  and  perchance  to  be  smitten 

By  some  hand  that  I  rather  had  wept  on  than  bitten ! 

Oh,  I  once  had  a  haunt  near  a  cot  where  a  mother 

Daily  sat  in  the  shade  with  her  child,  and  would  smother 

Its  eyelids  in  kisses,  and  then  in  its  sleep 

Sang  dreams  in  its  ear  of  its  manhood,  while  deep 

In  a  thicket  of  willows  I  gazed  o'er  the  brooks 

That  murmur'd  between  us  and  kiss'd  them  with  looks  ; 

But  the  willows  unbosom'd  their  secret,  and  never 

I  return'd  to  a  spot  I  had  startled  for  ever, 

Though  I  oft  long'd  to  know,  but  could  ask  it  of  none, 

Was  the  mother  still  fair,  and  how  big  was  her  son  ? 

For  the  hunters  of  fields  they  all  shunn'd  me  by  flight, 
The  men  in  their  horror,  the  women  in  fright ;  r 

None  ever  remain'd  save  a  child  once  that  sported 
Among  the  wild  bluebells,  and  playfully  courted 
The  breeze  ;  and  beside  him  a  speckled  snake  lay 
Tight  strangled,  because  it  had  hiss'd  him  away 
From  the  flow'r  at  his  finger ;  he  rose  and  drew  near 
Like  a  Son  of  Immortals,  one  born  to  no  fear, 
But  with  strength  of  black  locks  and  with  eyes  azure  bright 
To  grow  to  large  manhood  of  merciful  might. 
He  came,  with  his  face  of  bold  wonder,  to  feel, 
The  hair  of  my  side,  and  to  lift  up  my  heel, 
And  question'd  my  face  with  wide  eyes  j  but  when  under 
My  lids  he  saw  tears, — for  I  wept  at  his  wonder. 
He  stroked  me,  and  utter'd  such  kindliness  then. 
That  the  once  love  of  women,  the  friendship  of  men 
In  past  sorrow,  no  kindness  e'er  came  like  a  kiss 


134  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


On  my  heart  in  its  desolate  day  such  as  this ! 

And  1  yearn'd  at  his  cheeks  in  my  love,  and  down  bent, 

And  lifted  liim  up  in  my  arms  with  intent 

To  kiss  him, — but  lie  cruel-kindly,  alas  ! 

Held  out  to  my  lips  a  pluck'd  handful  of  grass ! 

Then  I  dropt  him  in  horror,  but  felt  as  I  fled 

The  stone  he  indignantly  hurl'd  at  my  head, 

That  dissever'd  my  ear, — but  1  felt  not,  whose  fate 

Was  to  meet  more  distress  in  his  love  than  his  hate ! 

Thus  I  wander'd,  companion'd  of  grief  and  forlorn, 
Till  I  wish'd  for  that  land  where  my  being  was  born, 
But  what  was  that  land  with  its  love,  where  my  home 
Was  self-shut  against  me;   for  why  should  I  come 
Like  an  after-distress  to  my  grey-bearded  father. 
With  a  blight  to  the  last  of  his  sicrht  ? — let  him  rather 
Lament  for  me  dead,  and  shed  tears  in  the  urn 
Where  I  was  not,  and  still  in  fond  memory  turn 
To  his  son  even  such  as  he  left  him.     Oh,  how 
Could  I  walk  with  the  youth  once  my  fellows,  but  now 
Like  Gods  to  my  humbled  estate  ? — or  how  bear 
The  steeds  once  the  pride  of  my  eyes  and  the  care 
Of  my  hands  ?  Then  I  turn'd  me  self-banish'd,  and  came 
Into  Thessaly  here,  where  I  met  with  the  same 
As  myself.     I  have  heard  how  they  met  by  a  stream 
In  games,  and  were  suddenly  changed  by  a  scream 
That  made  wretches  of  many,  as  she  roll'd  her  wild  eyes 
Against  heav'n,  and  so  vanish'd. — The  gentle  and  wise 
Lose  their  thoughts  in  deep  studies,  and  others  their  ill 
In  the  mirth  of  mankind  where  they  mingle  them  still. 


THE    TWO    PEACOCKS    OF    BEDFONT, 


Alas  !  That  breathing  Vanity  should  go 
Where  Pride  is  buried, — like  its  very  ghost, 

Uprisen  from  the  naked  bones  below, 
In  novel  flesh,  clad  in  the  silent  boast 

Of  gaudy  silk  that  flutters  to  and  fro. 
Shedding  its  chilling  superstition  most 

On  young  and  ignorant  natures — as  it  wont 

To  haunt  the  peaceful  churchyard  of  Bedfont ! 


ri. 


Each  Sabbath  morning,  at  the  hour  of  prayer. 
Behold  two  maidens,  up  the  quiet  green 

Shining,  far  distant,  in  the  summer  air 

That  flaunts  their  dewy  robes  and  breathes  between 

Their  downy  plumes, — sailing  as  if  they  were 
Two  far-off  ships, — until  they  brush  between 

The  churchyard's  humble  walls,  and  watch  and  wait 

On  either  side  of  the  wide  open'd  gate. 


136  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


III. 


And  there  they  stand — with  haughty  necks  before 
God's  holy  house,  that  points  towards  the  skies — 

Frowning  reluctant  duty  from  the  poor, 

And  tempting  homage  from  unthoughtful  eyes  : 

And  Youth  looks  lingering  from  the  temple  door, 
Breathing  its  wishes  in  unfruitful  sighs, 

With  pouting  lips, — forgetful  of  the  grace. 

Of  health,  and  smiles,  on  the  heart-conscious  face  j — 


IV. 


Because  that  Wealth,  which  has  no  bliss  beside, 
May  wear  the  happiness  of  rich  attire  ; 

And  those  two  sisters,  in  their  silly  pride, 

May  change  the  soul's  warm  glances  for  the  fire 

Of  lifeless  diamonds  ; — and  for  health  deny'd, — 
With  art,  that  blushes  at  itself,  inspire 

Their  languid  cheeks — and  flourish  in  a  glory 

That  has  no  life  in  life,  nor  after-story. 


The  aged  priest  goes  shaking  his  grey  hair 
In  meekest  censuring,  and  turns  his  eye 

Earthward  in  grief,  and  heavenward  in  pray'r, 
And  sighs,  and  clasps  his  hands,  and  passes  by. 

Good-hearted  man  !  what  sullen  soul  would  wear 
Thy  sorrow  for  a  garb,  and  constantly 

Put  on  thy  censure,  that  might  win  the  praise 

Of  one  so  grey  in  goodness  and  in  days  ? 


THE  TWO  PEACOCKS  OF  BEDFONT.  137 


VI. 


Also  the  solemn  clerk  partakes  the  shame 
Of  this  ungodly  shine  of  human  pride, 

And  sadly  blends  his  reverence  and  blame 
In  one  grave  bow,  and  passes  with  a  stride 

Impatient : — many  a  red-hooded  dame 

Turns  her  pain'd  head,  but  not  her  glance,  aside 

From  wanton  dress,  and  marvels  o'er  agaui. 

That  heaven  hath  no  wet  judgments  for  the  vain. 


VH. 


"  I  have  a  lily  in  the  bloom  at  home," 

Quoth  one,  "  and  by  the  blessed  Sabbath  day 
I'll  pluck  my  lily  in  its  pride,  and  come 

And  read  a  lesson  upon  vain  array ; — 
And  when  stiff  silks  are  rustling  up,  and  some 

Give  place,  I'll  shake  it  in  proud  eyes  and  say- 
Making  my  reverence, — '  Ladies,  an  you  please, 
King  Solomon's  not  half  so  fine  as  these.'  " 


VIII. 


Then  her  meek  partner,  who  has  nearly  run 

His  earthly  course, — "  Nay,  Goody,  let  your  text 

Grow  in  the  garden. — We  have  only  one — 

Who  knows  that  these  dim  eyes  may  see  the  next  ? 

Summer  will  come  again,  and  summer  sun, 
And  lilies  too, — but  I  were  sorely  vcxt 

To  mar  my  garden,  and  cut  short  the  blow 

Of  the  last  lily  I  may  live  to  grow." 


138  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


"  The  last !"  quoth  she,  "  and  though  the  last  it  were- 
Lo  !  those  two  wantons,  where  they  stand  so  proud 

With  waving  plumes,  and  jewels  in  their  hair, 
And  painted  cheeks,  like  Dagons  to  be  bow'd 

And  curtsey'd  to ! — last  Sabbath  after  pray'r, 
I  heard  the  little  Tomkins  ask  aloud 

If  they  were  angels — but  I  made  him  know 

God's  bright  ones  better,  with  a  bitter  blow  !" 


X. 

So  speaking,  they  pursue  the  pebbly  walk 

That  leads  to  the  white  porch  the  Sunday  throng, 

Hand-coupled  urchins  in  restrained  talk. 

And  anxious  pedagogue  that  chastens  wrong, 

And  posied  churchwarden  with  solemn  stalk. 
And  gold-bedizen'd  beadle  flames  along. 

And  gentle  peasant  clad  in  buff  and  green. 

Like  a  meek  cowslip  in  the  spring  serene  ; 


XI. 

And  blushing  maiden — modestly  array'd 

In  spotless  white, — still  conscious  of  the  glass  ; 

And  she,  the  lonely  widow,  that  hath  made 
A  sable  covenant  with  grief, — alas  ! 

She  veils  her  tears  under  the  deep,  deep  shade, 
While  the  poor  kindly-hearted,  as  they  pass, 

Bend  to  unclouded  childhood,  and  caress 

Her  boy, — so  rosy  ! — and  so  fatherless  ! 


THE  TWO  PEACOCKS  OF  BEDFONT.  139 

xn. 

Thus,  as  good  Christians  ought,  they  all  draw  near 

The  fair  white  temple,  to  the  timely  call 
Of  pleasant  bells  that  tremble  in  the  ear. — 

Now  the  last  frock,  and  scarlet  hood,  and  shawl 
Fade  into  dusk,  in  the  dim  atmosphere 

Of  the  low  porch,  and  heav'n  has  won  them  all, 
— Saving  those  two,  that  turn  aside  and  pass, 
In  velvet  blossom,  where  all  flesh  is  grass.        -  , 


xm. 

Ah  me  !  to  see  their  silken  manors  trail'd 
In  purple  luxuries — with  restless  gold, — 

Flauntinir  the  g-rass  where  widowhood  has  wail'd 
In  blotted  black, — over  the  heapy  mould 

Panting  wave-wantonly  !     They  never  quail'd 
How  the  warm  vanity  abused  the  cold  ; 

Nor  saw  the  solemn  faces  of  the  gone 

Sadly  uplooking  through  transparent  stone  : 


XIV. 

But  swept  their  dwellings  with  unquiet  light, 
Shocking  the  awful  presence  of  the  dead ; 

Where  gracious  natures  would  their  eyes  benight, 
Nor  wear  their  being  with  a  lip  too  red, 

Nor  move  too  rudely  in  the  summer  bright 
Of  sun,  but  put  staid  sorrow  in  their  tread, 

Meting  it  into  stops,  with  inward  breath, 

In  very  pity  to  bereaved  death. 


140  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


XV. 


Now  in  the  church,  time-sober'd  minds  resign 
To  solemn  pray'r,  and  the  loud  chanted  hymn,- 

With  glowing  picturings  of  joys  divine 

Painting  the  mistlight  where  the  roof  is  dim ; 

But  youth  looks  upward  to  the  window  shine, 
Warming  with  rose  and  purple  and  the  swim 

Of  gold,  as  if  thought-tinted  by  the  stains 

Of  gorgeous-light  through  many-color'd  panes  j 


XVI. 

Soiling  the  virgin  snow  wherein  God  hath 
Enrobed  his  angels, — and  with  absent  eyes 

Hearing  of  Heav'n,  and  its  directed  path, 

Thoughtful  of  slippers, — and  the  glorious  skies 

Clouding  with  satin, — till  the  preacher's  wrath 
Consumes  his  pity,  and  he  glows,  and  cries 

With  a  deep  voice  that  trembles  in  its  might, 

And  earnest  eyes  grown  eloquent  in  light : 


XVII 

"O  that  the  vacant  eye  would  learn  to  look 
On  very  beauty,  and  the  heart  embrace 

True  loveliness,  and  from  this  holy  book 

Drink  the  warm-breathing  tenderness  and  grace 

Of  love  indeed !     O  that  the  young  soul  took 
Its  virgin  passion  from  the  glorious  face 

Of  fair  religion,  and  address'd  its  strife, 

To  win  the  riches  of  eternal  life ! 


THE  TWO  PEACOCKS  OF  BEDFONTT         141 


XVIII. 


"  Doth  the  vain  heart  love  glory  that  is  none, 
And  the  poor  excellence  of  vain  attire  ? 

O  go,  and  drown  your  eyes  against  the  sun, 
The  visible  ruler  of  the  starry  quire. 

Till  boiling  gold  in  giddy  eddies  run, 

Dazzling  the  brain  with  orbs  of  living  fire  ; 

And  the  faint  soul  down  darkens  into  night, 

And  dies  a  burning  martyrdom  to  light. 


XIX. 


"  O  go,  and  gaze, — when  the  low  winds  of  ev'n 
Breathe  hymns,  and  Nature's  many  forests  nod 

Their  gold-crown'd  heads ;   and  the  rich  blooms  of  heav'n 
Sun-ripen'd  give  their  blushes  up  to  God ; 

And  mountain-rocks  and  cloudy  steeps  are  riv'n 
By  founts  of  fire,  as  smitten  by  the  rod 

Of  heavenly  Moses, — that  your  thirsty  sense 

May  quench  its  longings  of  magnificence  ! 


XX. 


"  Yet  suns  shall  perish — stars  shall  fade  away — 
Day  into  darkness — darkness  into  death — 

Death  into  silence  ;  the  warm  light  of  day, 

The  blooms  of  summer,  the  rich  glowing  breath 

Of  even — all  shall  wither  and  decay. 

Like  the  frail  furniture  of  dreams  beneath 

The  touch  of  mom— or  bubbles  of  rich  dyes 

That  break  and  vanish  in  the  aching  eyes." 


142  •  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


XXI. 


They  hear,  soul-blushing,  and  repentant  shed 

Unwholesome  thoughts  in  wholesome  tears,  and  pour 

Their  sin  to  earth, — and  with  low  di'ooping  head 
Receive  the  solemn  blessing,  and  implore 

Its  grace — tlien  soberly  with  chastened  tread, 
They  meekly  press  towards  the  gusty  door, 

With  humbled  eyes  that  go  to  graze  upon 

The  lowly  grass — like  him  of  Babylon. 


The  lowly  grass  ! — O  water-constant  mind  ! 

Fast-ebbing  holiness  ! — soon-fading  grace 
Of  serious  thought,  as  if  the  gushing  wind 

Through  tlie  low  porch  had  wash'd  it  from  the  face 
For  ever ! — How  they  lift  their  eyes  to  find 

Old  vanities. — Pride  wins  the  very  place 
Of  meekness,  like  a  bird,  and  flutters  now 
With  idle  wings  on  the  curl-conscious  brow  ! 


XXIII. 

And  lo !  with  eager  looks  they  seek  the  way 

Of  old  temptation  at  the  lowly  gate  ; 
To  feast  on  feathers,  and  on  vain  array, 

And  painted  cheeks,  and  the  rich  glistering  state 
Of  jewel-sprinkled  locks. — But  where  are  they, 

The  graceless  haughty  ones  that  used  to  wait 
With  lofty  neck,  and  nods,  and  stiffen'd  eye  ? — 
None  challenge  the  old  homage  bending  by. 


THE  TWO  PEACOCKS  OF  BEDFONT.         143 

XXIV 

In  vain  they  look  for  the  ungracious  bloom 

Of  rich  apparel  where  it  glow'd  before, — 
For  Vanity  has  faded  all  to  gloom, 

And  lofty  Pride  has  stifTen'd  to  the  core, 
For  impious  Life  to  tremble  at  its  doom, — 

Set  for  a  warning  token  evermore, 
Whereon,  as  now,  the  giddy  and  the  wise 
Shall  gaze  with  lifted  hands  and  wond'ring  eyes. 


XXV. 

The  aged  priest  goes  on  each  sabbath  morn. 
But  shakes  not  sorrow  under  his  grey  hair ; 

The  solemn  clerk  goes  lavender'd  and  shorn, 
Nor  stoops  his  back  to  the  ungodly  pair  ; — 

And  ancient  lips  that  pucker'd  up  in  scorn. 
Go  smoothly  breathing  to  the  house  of  pray'r ; 

And  in  the  garden-plot,  from  day  to  day. 

The  lily  blooms  its  long  white  life  away. 


XXVI. 

And  where  two  haughty  maidens  used  to  be. 

In  pride  of  plume,  where  plumy  Death  had  trod. 

Trailing  their  gorgeous  velvets  wantonly, 
Most  unmeet  pall,  over  the  holy  sod  ; — 

There,  gentle  stranger,  thou  may'st  only  see 

Two  sombre  Peacocks. Age,  with  sapient  nod 

Marking  the  spot,  still  tarries  to  declare 

How  they  once  lived,  and  wherefore  they  are  there. 


MINOR    POEMS. 


1827. 


8 


A  RETROSPECTIVE  REVIEW.  147 


A   RETROSPECTIVE  REVIEW, 


Oh,  when  I  was  a  tiny  boy 

My  days  and  nights  were  full  of  joy, 

My  mates  were  blithe  and  kind  ! — 
No  wonder  that  I  sometimes  sigh, 
And  dash  the  tear-drop  from  my  eye, 

To  cast  a  look  behind  ! 

A  hoop  was  an  eternal  round 

Of  pleasure.     In  those  days  I  found 

A  top  a  joyous  thing  ; — 
But  now  those  past  delights  I  drop, 
My  head,  alas  !  is  all  my  top, 

And  careful  thoughts  the  string ! 

My  marbles — once  my  bag  was  stor'd — 
Now  I  must  play  with  Elgin's  lord. 

With  Theseus  foi  a  taw  ! 
My  playful  horse  has  slipt  his  string, 
Forgotten  all  his  capering. 

And  harness'd  to  the  law  ! 

My  kite — how  fast  and  far  it  flew  ! 
Whilst  I,  a  sort  of  Franklin,  drew 

My  pleasure  from  the  sky  ! 
'Twas  paper'd  o'er  with  studious  themes. 
The  tasks  I  wrote — my  present  dreams 

Will  never  soar  so  high  ! 


148  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


My  joys  are  wingless  all  and  dead  ; 
My  dumps  are  made  of  more  than  lead; 

My  flights  soon  find  a  fall ; 
My  fears  prevail,  my  fancies  droop, 
Joy  never  cometh  with  a  hoop,        .    - 

And  seldom  with  a  call ! 

My  football 's  laid  upon  the  shelf; 
I  am  a  shuttlecock  myself 

The  world  knocks  to  and  fro  ; — 
My  archery  is  all  unlearn 'd, 
And  grief  against  myself  has  turn'd 

My  arrows  and  my  bow  !    . 

No  more  in  noontide  sun  I  bask ; 
My  authorship  's  an  endless  task, 

My  head  's  ne'er  out  of  school : 
My  heart  is  pain'd  with  scorn  and  slight, 
I  have  too  many  foes  to  fight, 

And  friends  grown  strangely  cool ! 

The  very  chum  that  shai'ed  my  cake 
Holds  out  so  cold  a  hand  to  shake. 

It  makes  me  shrink  and  sigh  : — 
On  this  I  will  not  dwell  and  hang, 
The  changeling  would  not  feel  a  pang 

Though  these  should  meet  his  eye  ! 

No  skies  so  blue  or  so  serene 

As  then  ; — no  leaves  look  half  so  green 

As  cloth'd  the  play-ground  tree  ! 
All  things  I  lov'd  are  alter'd  so, 
Nor  does  it  ease  my  heart  to  know 

That  change  resides  in  nie ! 


A  RETROSPECTIVE  REVIEW.  149 

O,  for  the  garb  that  mark'd  the  boy, 
The  trousers  made  of  corduroy, 

Well  ink'd  with  black  and  red ; 
The  crownless  hat,  ne'er  deem'd  an  ill — 
It  only  let  the  sunshine  still 

Repose  Upon  my  head  ! 

O,  for  the  riband  round  the  neck ! 
The  careless  dog's-ears  apt  to  deck 

My  book  and  collar  both  ! 
How  can  this  formal  man  be  styled 
Merely  an  Alexandrine  child, 

A  boy  of  larger  growth  ? 

O  for  that  small,  small  beer  anew ! 

And  (heaven's  own  type)  that  mild  sky-blue 

That  wash'd  my  sweet  meals  down  ; 
The  master  even  ! — and  that  small  Turk 
That  fagg'd  me  ! — worse  is  now  my  work — 

A  fag  for  all  the  town  ! 


■*D 


O  for  the  lessons  leam'd  by  heart ! 
Ay,  though  the  very  birch's  smart 

Should  mark  those  hours  again  ; 
I'd  "  kiss  the  rod,"  and  be  resign'd 
Beneath  the  stroke,  and  even  find 

Some  sugar  in  the  cane  ! 

The  Arabian  Nights  rehears'd  in  bed  ! 
The  Fairy  Tales  in  school-time  read, 

By  stealth,  'twixt  verb  and  noun  ! 
The  angel  form  that  always  walk'd 
In  all  my  dreams,  and  look'd  and  talk'd 

Exactly  like  Miss  Brown  ! 


150  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


The  omne  bene — Christmas  come  ! 
The  prize  of  merit,  won  for  home — 

Merit  had  prizes  then  ! 
But  now  I  write  for  days  and  days, 
For  fame — a  deal  of  empty  praise, 

Without  the  silver  pen  ! 

Then  home,  sweet  home  !  the  crowded  coach- 
The  joyous  shout — the  loud  appproach — 

The  winding  horns  like  rams' ! 
The  meeting  sweet  that  made  me  thrill. 
The  sweetmeats  almost  sweeter  still. 

No  '  satis  '  to  the  '  jams  !' — 

When  that  I  was  a  tiny  boy, 

My  days  and  nights  were  full  of  joy, 

My  mates  were  blithe  and  kind  ! 
No  wonder  that  I  sometimes  sigh, 
And  dash  the  tear-drop  from  my  eye,     ' 

To  cast  a  look  behind  ! 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  SUMMER.  151 


THE   DEPARTURE   OF   SUMMER 


Summer  is  gone  on  swallows'  wings, 
And  Earth  has  buried  all  her  flowers : 
No  more  the  lark,  the  linnet  sings, 
But  Silence  sits  in  faded  bowers. 
There  is  a  shadow  on  the  plain 
Of  Winter  ere  he  comes  again, — 
There  is  in  woods  a  solemn  sound 
Of  hollow  warnings  whisper'd  round. 
As  Echo  in  her  deep  recess 
For  once  had  turn'd  a  prophetess. 
Shuddering  Autumn  stops  to  list. 
And  breathes  his  fear  in  sudden  sighs, 
With  clouded  face,  and  hazel  eyes 
That  Quench  themselves,  and  hide  in  mist. 

Yes,  Summer  's  gone  like  pageant  bright ; 
Its  glorious  days  of  golden  light 
Are  gone — the  mimic  suns  that  quiver, 
Then  melt  in  Time's  dark-flowing  river. 
Gone  the  sweetly-scented  breeze 
That  spoke  in  music  to  the  trees ; 
Gone  for  damp  and  chilly  breath. 
As  if  fresh  blown  o'er  marble  seas, 
Or  newly  from  the  lungs  of  Death. — • 


152  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


Gone  its  virgin  roses'  blushes, 
Warm  as  when  Aurora  rushes 
Freshly  from  the  god's  embrace, 
With  all  her  shame  upon  her  face. 
Old  Time  hath  laid  them  in  the  mould ; 
Sure  he  is  blind  as  well  as  old, 
Whose  hand  relentless  never  spares 
Young  cheeks  so  beauty -bright  as  theirs ! 
Gone  are  the  flame-ey'd  lovers  now 
From  where  so  blushing-blest  they  tarried 
Under  the  hawthorn's  blossom- bough, 
Gone  ;   for  Day  and  Night  are  married. 
All  the  light  of  love  is  fled : — 
Alas  !  that  negro  breasts  should  hide 
The  lips  that  were  so  rosy  red. 
At  morning  and  at  even-tide  ! 

Delightful  Summer  !  then  adieu 
Till  thou  shalt  visit  us  anew : 
But  who  without  regretful  sigh 
Can  say,  adieu,  and  see  thee  fly  ? 
Not  he  that  e'er  hath  felt  thy  pow'r, 
His  joy  expanding  like  a  flow'r 
That  Cometh  after  rain  and  snow, 
Looks  up  at  heaven,  and  learns  to  glow  : — - 
Not  he  that  fled  from  Babel-sti'ife 
To  the  green  sabbath-land  of  life 
To  dodge  dull  Care  'mid  cluster'd  trees, 
And  cool  his  forehead  in  the  breeze, — 
Whose  spirit,  weary-worn  perchance, 
Shook  from  its  wings  a  weight  of  grief, 
And  perch'd  upon  an  aspen  leaf. 
For  every  breath  to  make  it  dance. 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  SUMMER.  153 

Farewell ! — on  wings  of"  sombre  stain, 
That  blacken  in  the  last  blue  skies, 
Thou  fly'st ;  but  thou  wilt  come  again 
On  the  gay  wings  of  butterflies. 
Spring  at  thy  approach  will  sprout 
Her  new  Corinthian  beauties  out, 
Leaf- woven  homes,  where  twitter-words 
Will  grow  to  songs,  and  eggs  to  birds ;  '  ' 

Ambitious  buds  shall  swell  to  flowers, 
And  April  smiles  to  sunny  hours. 
Bright  days  shall  be,  and  gentle  nights 
Full  of  soft  breath  and  echo-lights. 
As  if  the  god  of  sun-time  kept 
His  eyes  half-open  while  he  slept. 
Roses  shall  be  where  roses  were. 
Not  shadows,  but  reality  ; 
As  if  they  never  perish'd  there. 
But  slept  in  immortality  : 
Nature  shall  thrill  with  new  delight, 
And  Time's  relumin'd  river  run 
Warm  as  young  blood,  and  dazzling  bright, 
As  if  its  source  were  in  the  sun  ! 

But  say,  hath  Winter  then  no  charms  ? 
Is  there  no  joy,  no  gladness  warms 
His  aged  heart  ?  no  happy  wiles 
To  cheat  the  hoary  one  to  smiles  ? 
Onward  he  comes — the  cruel  North  •        ' 

Pours  his  furious  whirlwind  forth 
Before  him — and  we  breathe  the  breath 
Of  famish'd  bears  that  howl  to  death. 
Onward  he  comes  from  rocks  that  blanch 
O'er  solid  streams  that  never  flow, 

8* 


154  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


His  tears  all  ice,  his  locks  all  snow, 
Just  crept  from  some  huge  avalanche — 
A  thing  half-breathing  and  half-warm, 
As  if  one  spark  began  to  glow 
Within  some  statue's  marble  form. 
Or  pilgrim  stiffen'd  in  the  storm. 
O  !  will  not  Mirth's  light  arrows  fail 
To  pierce  that  frozen  coat  of  mail  ? 
O  !  will  not  Joy  but  strive  in  vain 
To  light  up  those  glaz'd  eyes  again  ? 

No  !  take  him  in,  and  blaze  the  oak, 
And  pour  the  wine,  and  warm  the  ale  ; 
His  sides  shall  shake  to  many  a  joke, 
His  tongue  shall  thaw  in  many  a  tale, 
His  eyes  grow  bright,  his  heart  be  gay, 
And  even  his  palsy  charm'd  away. 
What  heeds  he  then  the  boisterous  shout 
Of  angry  winds  that  scold  without, 
Like  shrewish  wives  at  tavern  door  ? 
What  heeds  he  then  the  wild  uproar 
Of  billows  bursting  on  the  shore  ?       .  ..  - 
In  dashing  waves,  in  howling  breeze. 
There  is  a  music  that  can  charm  him ; 
When  safe,  and  shelter'd,  and  at  ease, 
He  hears  the  storm  that  cannot  harm  him. 

But  hark  !  those  shouts  !  that  sudden  din 
Of  little  hearts  that  laugh  within. 
O  !  take  him  where  the  youngsters  play, 
And  he  will  grow  as  young  as  they  ! 
They  come  !  they  come  !  each  blue-ey'd  Sport, 
The  Twelfth-Night  King  and  all  his  court— 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  SUMMER.  155 

'Tis  Mirth  fresh  crown'd  with  misletoe ! 

Music  with  her  merry  fiddles, 

Joy  "  on  light  fantastic  toe," 

Wit  with  all  his  jests  and  riddles, 

Singing  and  dancing  as  they  go. 

And  Love,  young  Love,  among  the  rest, 

A  welcome — nor  unbidden  guest. 

But  still  for  Summer  dost  thou  grieve? 
Then  read  our  Poets — they  shall  weave 
A  garden  of  green  fancies  still, 
Where  thy  wish  may  rove  at  will. 
They  have  kept  for  after  treats 
The  essences  of  summer  sweets. 
And  echoes  of  its  songs  that  wind 
In  endless  music  through  the  mind  : 
They  have  stamp'd  in  visible  traces 
The  "  thoughts  that  breathe,"  in  words  that  shine — 
The  flights  of  soul  in  sunny  places — 
To  greet  and  company  with  thine. 
These  shall  wing  thee  on  to  flow'rs — 
The  past  or  future,  that  shall  seem 
All  the  brighter  in  thy  dream 
For  blowing  in  such  desert  hours. 
The  summer  never  shines  so  bright 
As  thought  of  in  a  winter's  night ; 
And  the  sweetest  loveliest  rose 
Is  in  the  bud  before  it  blows. 
The  dear  one  of  the  lover's  heart 
Is  painted  to  his  longing  eyes, 
In  charms  she  ne'er  can  realize — 
But  when  she  turns  again  to  part. 
Dream  thou  then,  and  bind  thy  brow 


158  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


With  wreath  of  fancy  roses  now, 

And  drink  of  Summer  in  the  cup 

Where  the  Muse  hath  mix'd  it  up ; 

The  "  dance,  and  song,  and  sun-burnt  mirth,'* 

With  the  warm  nectar  of  the  earth  : 

Drink  !  'twill  glow  in  every  vein, 

And  thou  shalt  dream  the  winter  through  : 

Then  waken  to  the  sun  again, 

And  find  thy  Summer  Vision  true  ! 


SONG.  157 


SONG. 


FOE     MTTSIC 


A  LAKE  and  a  fairy  boat 

To  sail  in  the  moonlight  clear, — 

And  merrily  we  would  float 

From  the  dragons  that  watch  us  here ! 

Thy  gown  shall  be  snow-white  silk, 
And  strings  of  orient  pearls, 
Like  gossamers  dipp'd  in  milk, 
Should  twine  with  thy  raven  curls  ! 

Red  rubies  should  deck  thy  hands, 
And  diamonds  should  be  thy  dow'r — 
But  Fairies  have  broken  their  wands, 
And  wishing  has  lost  its  pow'r  ! 


168  HOOD'S  POEMS, 


ODE: 


AUTUMN 


I- 

I  SAW  old  Autumn  in  the  misty  morn 
Stand  shadowless  like  Silence,  listening 
To  silence,  for  no  lonely  bird  would  sing 
Into  his  hollow  ear  from  woods  forlorn, 
Nor  lowly  hedge  nor  solitary  thorn  ; 
Shaking  his  languid  locks  all  dewy  bright 
With  tangled  gossamer  that  fell  by  night, 
Pearling  his  coronet  of  golden  corn. 


11. 


Where  are  the  songs  of  Summer  ? — With  the  sun, 

Oping  the  dusky  eyelids  of  the  south. 

Till  shade  and  silence  waken  up  as  one. 

And  JMorning  sings  with  a  warm  odorous  mouth. 

Where  are  the  merry  birds? — Away,  away, 

On  panting  wings  through  the  inclement  skies, 

Lest  owls  should  prey 

Undazzled  at  noon-day. 
And  tear  with  horny  beak  their  lustrous  eyes. 


ODE:    AUTUMN.  159 


III. 
Where  are  the  blooms  of  Summer  ? — In  the  west, 
Blushing  their  last  to  the  last  sunny  hours, 
When  the  mild  Eve  by  sudden  Night  is  prest 
Like  tearful  Proserpine,  snatch'd  from  her  flow'rs 

To  a  most  gloomy  breast. 
Where  is  the  pride  of  Summer, — the  green  prime, — 
The  many,  many  leaves  all  twinkling? — Three 
On  the  moss'd  elm  ;  three  on  the  naked  lime 
Trembling, — and  one  upon  the  old  oak  tree  ! 

Where  is  the  Dryad's  immortality  ? —  ^ 
Gone  into  mournful  cypress  and  dark  yew. 
Or  wearing  the  long  gloomy  Winter  through 

In  the  smooth  holly's  green  eternity. 

The  squirrel  gloats  on  his  aecomplish'd  hoard, 

The  ants  have  brimm'd  their  garners  with  ripe  grain, 

And  honey  bees  have  stor'd 
The  sweets  of  summer  in  their  luscious  cells ; 
The  swallows  all  have  winged  across  the  main ; 
But  here  the  Autumn  melancholy  dwells. 

And  sighs  her  tearfur spells 
Amongst  the  sunless  shadows  of  the  plain. 
Alone,  alone. 
Upon  a  mossy  stone, 
She  sits  and  reckons  up  the  dead  and  gone 
With  the  last  leaves  for  a  love-rovsary. 
Whilst  all  the  wither'd  world  looks  drearily. 
Like  a  dim  picture  of  the  drowned  past 
In  the  hush'd  mind's  mysterious  far  away. 
Doubtful  what  ghostly  thing  will  steal  the  last 
Into  that  distance,  grey  upon  the  grey. 


160  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


V. 


O  go  and  sit  with  her,  and  be  o'ershaded 
Under  the  languid  downfall  of  her  hair ; 
She  wears  a  coronal  of  flowers  faded 
Upon  her  forehead,  and  a  face  of  care  ; — 
There  is  enough  o^f  wither 'd  everywhere 
To  make  her  bower, — and  enough  of  gloom ; 
There  is  enough  of  sadness  to  invite, 
If  only  for  the  rose  that  died,  whose  doom 
Is  Beauty's, — she  that  with  the  living  bloom 
Of  conscious  cheeks  most  beautifies  the  light : 
There  is  enough  of  sorrowing,  and  quite 
Enough  of  bitter  fruits  the  earth  doth  bear, — 
Enough  of  chilly  droppings  from  her  bowl ; 
Enough  of  fear  and  shadowy  despair, 
To  frame  her  cloudy  prison  for  the  soul  ! 


HYMN  TO  THE  SUN.  161 


HYMN  TO  THE  SUN, 


Giver  of  glowing  light ! 
Though  but  a  god  of  other  days, 

The  kings  and  sages 

Of  wiser  ages 
Still  live  and  gladden  in  thy  genial  rays  ! 

King  of  the  tuneful  lyre, 
Still  poets'  hymns  to  thee  belong  ; 
Though  lips  are  cold 
Whereon  of  old 
Thy  beams  all  turn'd  to  worshipping  and  song  ! 

Lord  of  the  dreadful  bow, 
None  triumph  now  for  Python's  death  ; 
But  thou  dost  save 
From  hungry  grave 
The  life  that  hangs  upon  a  summer  breath. 

Father  of  rosy  day, 
No  more  thy  clouds  of  incense  rise  ; 

But  waking  flow'rs, 

At  morning  hours, 
Give  out  their  sweets  to  meet  thee  in  the  skies. 


162  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


God  of  the  Delphic  fane, 
No  more  thou  listenest  to  hymns  sublime ; 
-But  they  will  leave 
On  winds  at  eve, 
A  solemn  echo  to  the  end  of  time. 


TO  A  COLD  BEAUTY.  163 


TO  A  COLD  BEAUTY. 


Lady,  wouldst  thou  heiress  be 

To  Winter's  cold  and  cruel  part  ? 

When  he  sets  the  rivers  free, 

Thou  dost  still  lock  up  thy  heart ; — 

Thou  that  shouldst  outlast  the  snow, 

But  in  the  whiteness  of  thy  brow  ? 

II. 

Scorn  and  cold  neglect  are  made 
For  winter  gloom  and  winter  wind, 

But  thou  wilt  wrong  the  summer  air. 
Breathing  it  to  words  unkind, — 

Breath  which  only  should  belong 

To  love,  to  sunlight,  and  to  song  ! 


When  the  little  buds  unclose. 

Red,  and  white,  and  pied,  and  blue, 

And  that  virgin  flow'r,  the  rose, 
Opes  her  heart  to  hold  the  dew, 

Wilt  thou  lock  thy  bosom  up 

With  no  jewel  in  its  cup? 


164  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


IV. 

Let  not  cold  December  sit 

Thus  in  Love's  peculiar  throne : 

Brooklets  are  not  prison'd  now, 
But  crystal  frosts  are  all  agone, 

And  that  which  hangs  upon  the  spray, 

It  is  no  snow,  but  flow'r  of  May ! 


AUTUMN.  165 


AUTUMN. 


The  Autumn  skies  are  flush'd  with  gold, 
And  fair  and  bright  the  rivers  run ; 
These  are  but  streams  of  winter  cold, 
And  painted  mists  that  quench  the  sun. 


n. 


In  secret  boughs  no  sweet  birds  sing, 
In  secret  boughs  no  bird  can  shroud  ; 
These  are  but  leaves  that  take  to  wing. 
And  wintry  winds  that  pipe  so  loud. 


-ni. 


'Tis  not  trees'  shade,  but  cloudy  glooms 
That  on  the  cheerless  valleys  fall, 
The  flowers  are  in  their  grassy  tombs. 
And  tears  of  dew  are  on  them  all. 


166  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


THE  SEA  OF  DEATH, 


A    FRAGMENT. 


Methought  I  saw- 
Life  swiftly  treading  over  endless  space  ; 
And,  at  her  foot-print,  but  a  bygone  pace, 
The  ocean-past,  which,  with  increasing  wave, 
Swallow'd  her  steps  like  a  pursuing  grave. 

Sad  were  my  thoughts  that  anchor'd  silently 
On  the  dead  waters  of  that  passionless  sea, 
Unstirr'd  by  any  touch  of  living  breath : 
Silence  hung  over  it,  and  drowsy  Death, 
Like  a  gorged  sea-bird,  slept  with  folded  wings 
On  crowded  carcases — sad  passive  things 
That  wore  the  thin  grey  surface,  like  a  veil 
Over  the  calmness  of  their  features  pale. 

And  there  were  spring-faced  cherubs  that  did  sleep 

Like  water-lilies  on  that  motionless  deep. 

How  beautiful !  with  bright  unruffled  hair 

On  sleek  unfretted  brows,  and  eyes  that  were 

Buried  in  marble  tombs,  a  pale  eclipse  ! 

And  smile-bedimpled  cheeks,  and  pleasant  lips, 

Meekly  apart,  as  if  the  soul  intense 

Spake  out  in  dreams  of  its  own  innocence  : 


THE  SEA  OF  DEATH.  167 


And  so  they  lay  in  loveliness,  and  kept 

The  birth-night  of  their  peace,  that  Life  e'en  wept 

With  very  envy  of  their  happy  fronts  ; 

For  there  were  neighbor  brows  scarr'd  by  the  brunts 

Of  strife  and  sorrowing — where  Care  had  set 

His  crooked  autograph,  and  marr'd  the  jet 

Of  glossy  locks,  with  hollow  eyes  forlorn, 

And  lips  that  curl'd  in  bitterness  and  scorn — 

Wretched, — as  they  had  breathed  of  this  world's  pain, 

And  so  bequeath'd  it  to  the  world  again 

Through  the  beholder's  heart  in  heavy  sighs. 

So  lay  they  garmented  in  torpid  light, 

Under  the  pall  of  a  transparent  night. 

Like  solemn  apparitions  lull'd  sublime 

To  everlasting  rest, — and  with  them  Time 

Slept,  as  he  sleeps  upon  the  silent  face 

Of  a  dark  dial  in  a  sunless  place. 


168  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


BALLAD. 


She's  up  and  gone,  the  graceless  Girl ! 

And  robb'd  my  failing  years  ; 
My  blood  before  was  thin  and  cold 

But  now  'tis  turn'd  to  tears ; — 
My  shadow  falls  upon  my  grave, 

So  near  the  brink  I  stand, 
She  might  have  stayed  a  little  yet, 

And  led  me  by  the  hand  ! 

Aye,  call  her  on  the  barren  moor, 

And  call  her  on  the  hill, 
'Tis  nothing  but  the  heron's  cry. 

And  plover's  answer  shrill ; 
My  child  is  flown  on  wilder  wings. 

Than  they  have  ever  spread, 
And  I  may  even  walk  a  waste 

That  widen'd  when  she  fled. 

Full  many  a  thankless  child  has  been, 

But  never  one  like  mine  ; 
Her  meat  was  served  on  plates  of  gold. 

Her  drink  was  rosy  wine  ; 
But  now  she'll  share  the  robin's  food. 

And  sup  the  common  rill, 
Before  her  feet  will  turn  again 

To  meet  her  father's  will ! 


BALLAD.  169 


BALLAD. 


Sigh  on,  sad  heart,  for  Love's  eclipse 

And  Beauty's  fairest  queen, 
The'  'tis  not  for  my  peasant  lips 

To  soil  her  name  between  : 
A  king  might  lay  his  sceptre  down, 

But  I  am  poor  and  naught. 
The  brow  should  wear  a  golden  crown 

That  wears  her  in  its  thought. 


n 


The  diamonds  glancing  in  her  hair, 

Whose  sudden  beams  surprise, 
Might  bid  such  humble  hopes  beware 

The  glancing  of  her  eyes  ; 
Yet  looking  once,  I  look'd  too  long, 

And  if  my  love  is  sin, 
Death  follows  on  the  heels  of  wrong. 

And  kills  the  crime  within. 

Her  dress  seem'd  wove  of  lily  leaves, 

It  was  so  pure  and  fine, 
O  lofty  wears,  and  lowly  weaves, 

But  hodden  grey  is  mine  : 
And  homely  hose  must  step  apart. 

Where  garter'd  princes  stand, 
But  may  he  wear  my  love  at  heart 

That  wins  her  lily  hand  ! 

9 


170  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


Alas  !  there's  far  from  russet  frieze 

To  silks  and  satin  gowns, 
But  I  doubt  if  God  made  like  degrees, 

In  courtly  hearts  and  clowns. 
My  father  wrong'd  a  maiden's  mirth, 

And  brought  her  cheeks  to  blame. 
And  all  that's  lordly  of  my  birth. 

Is  my  reproach  and  shame  ! 

'Tis  vain  to  weep, — 'tis  vain  to  sigh, 

'Tis  vain  this  idle  speech, 
For  where  her  happy  pearls  do  lie, 

My  tears  may  never  reach  ; 
Yet  when  I  'm  gone,  e'en  lofty  pride 

May  say  of  what  has  been, 
His  love  was  nobly  born  and  died, 

Tho'  all  the  rest  was  mean  ! 

My  speech  is  rude, — but  speech  is  weak 

Such  love  as  mine  to  tell, 
Yet  had  I  words,  I  dare  not  speak. 

So,  Lady,  fare  thee  well ; 
I  will  not  wish  thy  better  state 

Was  one  of  low  degree. 
But  I  must  weep  that  partial  fate 

Made  such  a  churl  of  me. 


THE  WATER  LADY.  171 


THE    WATER    LADY. 


Alas,  the  moon  should  ever  beam 
To  show  what  man  should  never  see  !- 
I  saw  a  maiden  on  a  stream, 
And  fair  was  she  ! 

I  stayed  awhile,  to  see  her  throw 
Her  tresses  back,  that  all  beset 
The  fair  horizon  of  her  brow 
With  clouds  of  jet. 

I  stayed  a  little  while  to  view    . 
Her  cheek,  that  wore  in  place  of  red 
The  bloom  of  water,  tender  blue. 
Daintily  spread. 

I  stayed  to  watch,  a  little  space, 
Her  parted  lips  if  she  would  sing ; 
The  waters  closed  above  her  face. 
With  many  a  ring. 

And  still  I  stay'd  a  little  more, 
Alas  !  she  never  comes  again  ; 
I  throw  my  flow'rs  from  the  shore, 
And  watch  in  vain. 

I  know  my  life  will  fade  away, 
I  know  that  I  must  vainly  pine, 
For  I  am  made  of  mortal  clay, 
But  she's  divine  ! 


172  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


THE   EXILE, 


The  swallow  with  summer 

Will  wing  o'er  the  seas, 
The  wind  that  I  sigh  to 

Will  visit  thy  trees. 
The  ship  that  it  hastens 

Thy  ports  will  contain, 
But  me — I  must  never 

See  Ensfland  again  ! 

There  's  many  that  weep  there, 

But  one  Aveeps  alone, 
For  the  tears  that  are  falling 

So  far  from  her  own  ; 
So  far  from  thy  own,  love. 

We  know  not  our  pain  ; 
If  death  is  between  us. 

Or  only  the  main. 

When  the  white  cloud  reclines 

jOn  the  verge  of  the  sea, 
I  fancy  the  white  cliffs, 

And  dream  upon  thee  ; 
But  the  cloud  spreads  its  wings 

To  the  blue  heav'n  and  flies. 
We  never  shall  meet,  love, 

Except  in  the  skies  ! 


TO  AN  ABSENTEE.  173 


TO   AN   ABSENTEE. 


O'er  hill,  and  dale,  and  distant  sea, 
Through  all  the  miles  that  stretch  between. 
My  thought  must  fly  to  rest  on  thee, 
And  would,  though  worlds  should  intervene. 

Nay,  thou  art  now  so  dear,  methinks 
The  farther  we  are  forc'd  apart. 
Affection's  firm  elastic  links 
But  bind  the  closer  round  the  heart. 

For  now  we  sever  each  from  each, 
I  learn  what  I  have  lost  in  thee  ; 
Alas,  that  nothing  less  could  teach, 
How  great  indeed  my  love  should  be  ! 

Farewell !     I  did  not  know  thy  worth, 
But  thou  art  gone,  and  now  'tis  priz'd  ; 
So  angels  walked  unknown  on  earth, 
But  when  they  flew  were  recognized  ! 


174  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


SONG. 


The  stars  are  with  the  voyager 

Wherever  he  may  sail ; 
The  moon  is  constant  to  her  time ; 

The  sun  will  never  fail ; 
But  follow,  follow  round  the  world, 

The  green  earth  and  the  sea, 
So  love  is  with  the  lover's  heart, 

Wherever  he  may  be. 


Wherever  he  may  be,  the  stars 

Must  daily  lose  their  light ; 
The  moon  will  veil  her  in  the  shade 

The  sun  will  set  at  night. 
The  sun  may  set,  but  constant  love 

Will  shine  when  he  's  away  ; 
So  that  dull  night  is  never  night, 

And  day  is  brighter  day. 


ODE  TO  THE  MOON.  175 


ODE   TO  THE   MOON. 


MoTHEE  of  light !  how  fairly  dost  thou  go 

Over  those  hoary  crests,  divinely  led  ! — 

Art  thou  that  huntress  of  the  silver  bow 

Fabled  of  old  ?     Or  rather  dost  thou  tread 

Those  cloudy  summits  thence  to  gaze  below, 

Like  the  wild  Chamois  from  her  Alpine  snow, 

Where  hunter  never  climb'd, — secure  from  dread  ? 

How  many  antique  fancies  have  I  read 

Of  that  mild  presence  !  and  how  many  wrought ! 

Wondrous  and  bright, 

Upon  the  silver  light. 
Chasing  fair  figures  with  the  artist,  Thought ! 

«. 

What  art  thou  like  ? — Sometimes  I  see  thee  ride 

A  far-bound  galley  on  its  perilous  way. 

Whilst  breezy  waves  toss  up  their  silvery  spray  ;— 

Sometimes  behold  thee  glide, 
Cluster'd  by  all  thy  family  of  stars. 
Like  a  lone  widow,  through  the  welkin  wide. 
Whose  pallid  cheek  the  midnight  sorrow  mars  ; — 
Sometimes  I  watch  thee  on  from  steep  to  steep, 
Timidly  lighted  by  thy  vestal  torch, 


176  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


Till  in  some  Latmian  cave  I  see  thee  creep, 
To  catch  the  young  Endymion  asleep, — 
Leaving  thy  splendor  at  the  jagged  porch  ! 


III. 


Oh  !  thou  art  beautiful,  howe'er  it  be  ! 
Huntress,  or  Dian,  or  whatever  nam'd  ; 
And  he,  the  veriest  Pagan,  that  first  fram'd 
A  silver  idol,  and  ne'er  worshipp'd  thee ! — 
It  is  too  late,  or  thou  should'st  have  my  knee  ; 
Too  late  now  for  the  old  Ephesian  vows. 
And  not  divine  the  crescent  on  thy  brows  ! — 
Yet,  call  thee  nothing  but  the  mere  inild  Moon, 

Behind  those  chestnut  boughs, 
Casting  their  dappled  shadows  at  my  feet; 
I  will  be  grateful  for  that  simple  boon. 
In  many  a  thoughtful  verse  and  anthem  sweet, 
And  bless  thy  dainty  face  whene'er  we  meet. 


IV. 


In  nights  far  gone, — ay,  far  away  and  dead, — 

Before  Care-fretted  with  a  lidless  eye, — 

I  was  thy  wooer  on  my  little  bed. 

Letting  the  early  hours  of  rest  go  by. 

To  see  thee  flood  the  heaven  with  milky  light, 

And  feed  thy  snow-white  swans,  before  I  slept ; 

For  thou  wert  then  purveyor  of  my  dreams, — 

Thou  wert  the  fairies'  armorer,  that  kept 

Their  burnish'd  helms,  and  crowns,  and  corslets  bright, 

Their  spears,  and  glittering  mails ; 
And  ever  thou  didst  spill  in  winding  streams 

Sparkles  and  midnight  gleams, 
For  fishes  to  new  gloss  their  argent  scales ! — 


ODE  TO  THE  MOON.  177 


V. 


Why  sighs  ! — why  creeping  tears  ? — why  clasped  hands  ?- 

Is  it  to  count  the  boy's  expended  dower  ? 

That  fairies  since  have  broke  their  gifted  wands  ? 

That  young  Delight,  like  any  o'erblown  flow'r, 

Gave,  one  by  one,  its  sweet  leaves  to  the  ground  ? — 

Why  then,  fair  Moon,  for  all  thou  mark'st  no  hour. 

Thou  art  a  sadder  dial  to  old  Time 

Than  ever  I  have  found 
On  sunny  garden-plot,  or  moss-grown  tow'r, 
Motto'd  with  stern  and  melancholy  rhyme. 


VI. 


Why  should  I  grieve  for  this  ? — O  I  must  yearn, 

Whilst  Time,  conspirator  with  Memory, 

Keeps  his  cold  ashes  in  an  ancient  urn. 

Richly  emboss'd  with  childhood's  revelry. 

With  leaves  and  cluster'd  fruits,  and  flow'rs  eterne,- 

(Eternal  to  the  world,  though  not  to  me), 

Aye  there  will  those  brave  sports  and  blossoms  be, 

The  deathless  wreath,  and  undecay'd  festoon, 

When  I  am  hears'd  within, — 
Less  than  the  pallid  primrose  to  the  Moon, 
That  now  she  watches  through  a  vapor  thin. 


vn. 


So  let  it  be : — Betore  I  liv'd  to  sigh. 
Thou  wert  in  Avon,  and  a  thousand  rills, 
Beautiful  Orb !  and  so,  whene'er  I  lie 
Trodden,  thou  wilt  be  gazing  from  thy  hills. 
Blest  be  thy  loving  light,  where'er  it  spills. 
And  blessed  thy  fair  face,  O  Mother  mild ! 

9* 


178  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


Still  shine,  the  soul  of  rivers  as  they  run, 
Still  lend  thy  lonely  lamp  to  lovers  fond. 
And  blend  their  plighted  shadows  into  one : — 
Still  smile  at  even  on  the  bedded  child, 
And  close  his  eyelids  with  thy  silver  wand  ! — 


TO  .  170 


TO 


Welcome,  dear  Heart,  and  a  most  kind  good-morrow ; 
The  day  is  gloomy,  but  our  looks  shall  shine  : — 
Flow'rs  I  have  none  to  give  thee,  but  I  borrow 
Their  sweetness  in  a  verse  to  speak  for  thine. 

Here  are  red  roses,  gather'd  at  thy  cheeks, 
The  white  were  all  too  happy  to  look  white  : 
For  love  the  rose,  for  faith  the  lily  speaks ; 
It  withers  in  false  hands,  but  here  'tis  bright ! 

Dost  love  sweet  Hyacinth  ?     Its  scented  leaf 
Curls  manifold, — all  love's  delights  blow  double : 
'Tis  said  this  flow'ret  is  inscribed  with  grief, — 
But  let  that  hint  of  a  forgotten  trouble. 

I  pluck'd  the  Primrose  at  night's  dewy  noon  ; 
Like  Hope,  it  show'd  its  blossoms  in  the  night ; — 
'Twas,  like  Endymion,  watching  for  the  Moon  ! 
And  here  are  Sun-flowers,  amorous  of  light  I 

These  golden  Buttercups  are  April's  seal, — 
The  Daisy  stars  her  constellations  be  : 
These  grew  so  lowly,  I  was  forced  to  kneel, 
Therefore  I  pluck  no  Daisies  but  for  thee ! 

Here  's  Daisies  for  the  morn.  Primrose  for  gloom, 
Pansies  and  Roses  for  the  noontide  hours  : — 
A  wight  once  made  a  dial  of  their  bloom, — 
So  may  thy  life  be  measur'd  out  by  flow'rs  ! 


ISO  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


THE  FORSAKEN. 


The  dead  are  in  their  silent  graves, 
And  the  dew  is  cold  above, 
And  the  living  weep  and  sigh, 
Over  dust  that  once  was  love. 

Once  I  only  wept  the  dead, 
But  now  the  living  cause  my  pain  : 
How  couldst  thou  steal  me  from  my  tears, 
To  leave  me  to  my  tears  again  ? 

My  Mother  rests  beneath  the  sod, — 
Her  rest  is  calm  and  very  deep  : 
I  wish'd  that  she  could  see  our  loves, — 
But  now  I  gladden  in  her  sleep. 

Last  night  unbound  my  raven  locks, 
The  morning  saw  them  turn'd  to  grey, 
Once  they  were  black  and  well  belov'd, 
But  thou  art  chang'd, — and  so  are  they ! 

The  useless  lock  I  gave  thee  once. 

To  gaze  upon  and  think  of  me, 

Was  ta'en  with  smiles, — but  this  was  torn 

In  sorrow  that  I  send  to  thee  ! 


SONNETS.  181 


WRITTEN    IN    A    VOLUME    OF    SHAKSPEARE. 


How  bravely  Autumn  paints  upon  the  sky 

The  gorgeous  fame  of  Summer  which  is  fled  ! 

Hues  of  all  flow'rs  that  in  their  ashes  lie, 

Trophied  in  that  fair  light  whereon  they  fed, 

Tulip,  and  hyacinth,  and  sweet  rose  red, — 

Like  exhalations  from  the  leafy  mould, 

Look  here  how  honor  glorifies  the  dead. 

And  warms  their  scutcheons  with  a  glance  of  gold  !- 

Such  is  the  memory  of  poets  old, 

Who  on  Parnassus'  hill  have  bloom'd  elate ; 

Now  they  are  laid  under  their  marbles  cold. 

And  turn'd  to  clay,  whereof  they  were  create  ; 

But  God  Apollo  hath  them  all  enroll'd, 

And  blazon'd  on  the  very  clouds  of  fate  ! 


182  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


IL 


TO    FANCY. 


Most  delicate  Ariel !  submissive  thing, 
Won  by  the  mind's  high  magic  to  its  best, — 
Invisible  embassy,  or  secret  guest, — 
Weighing  the  light  air  on  a  lighter  wing  ; — 
Whether  into  the  midnight  moon,  to  bring 
Illuminate  visions  to  the  eye  of  rest, — 
Or  rich  romances  from  the  florid  West, — 
Or  to  the  sea,  for  mystic  whispering, — 
Still  by  thy  charm'd  allegiance  to  the  will, 
The  fruitful  wishes  prosper  in  the  brain, 
As  by  the  fingering  of  fairy  skill, — 
Moonlight,  and  waters,  and  soft  music's  strain, 
Odors,  and  blooms,  and  my  Miranda's  smile, 
Making  this  dull  world  an  enchanted  isle. 


SONNETS.  ■  183 


III. 

TO    AN    ENTHUSIAST, 


YoTJNG  ardent  soul,  graced  with  fair  Nature's  truth, 
Spring  warmth  of  heart,  and  fervency  of  mind, 
And  still  a  large  late  love  of  all  thy  kind, 
Spite  of  the  world's  cold  practice  and  Time's  tooth,- 
For  all  these  gifts,  I  know  not,  in  fair  sooth. 
Whether  to  give  thee  joy,  or  bid  thee  blind 
Thine  eyes  with  tears, — that  thou  hast  not  resign'd 
The  passionate  fire  and  fierceness  of  thy  youth : 
For  as  the  current  of  thy  life  shall  flow. 
Gilded  by  shine  of  sun  or  shadow-stain'd, 
Through  flow'ry  valley  or  unwholesome  fen. 
Thrice  blessed  in  thy  joy,  or  in  thy  woe 
Thrice  cursed  of  thy  race, — thou  art  ordain'd 
To  share  beyond  the  lot  of  common  men. 


184  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


IV. 

It  is  not  death,  that  sometime  in  a  sigh 
This  eloquent  breath  shall  take  its  speechless  flight ; 
That  sometime  these  bright  stars,  that  now  reply- 
In  sunlight  to  the  sun,  shall  set  in  night ; 
That  this  warm  conscious  flesh  shall  perish  quite. 
And  all  life's  ruddy  springs  forget  to  flow  ; 
That  thoughts  shall  cease,  and  the  immortal  spright 
Be  lapp'd  in  alien  clay  and  laid  below  ; 
It  is  not  death  to  know  this, — but  to  know 
That  pious  thoughts,  which  visit  at  new  graves 
In  tender  pilgrimage,  will  cease  to  go 
So  duly  and  so  oft, — and  when  grass  waves 
Over  the  past-away,  there  may  be  then 
No  resurrection  in  the  minds  of  men. 


SONNETS.  1S5 


By  ev'ry  sweet  tradition  of  true  hearts, 

Graven  by  Time,  in  love  with  his  own  lore  ; 

By  all  old  martyrdoms  and  antique  smarts. 

Wherein  Love  died  to  be  alive  the  more  ; 

Yea,  by  the  sad  impression  on  the  shore, 

Left  by  the  drown'd  Leander,  to  endear 

That  coast  for  ever,  where  the  billow's  roar 

Moaneth  for  pity  in  the  Poet's  ear  ; 

By  Hero's  faith,  and  the  foreboding  tear 

That  quench'd  her  brand's  last  twinkle  in  its  fall ; 

By  Sappho's  leap,  and  the  low  rustling  fear 

That  sigh'd  around  her  flight ;  I  swear  by  all. 

The  world  shall  find  such  pattern  in  my  act, 

As  if  Love's  great  examples  still  were  lack'd. 


186  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


VI. 

ON    RECEIVING  A    GIFT. 


Look  how  the  golden  ocean  shines  above 

Its  pebbly  stones,  and  magnifies  their  girth ; 

So  does  the  bright  and  blessed  light  of  love 

Its  ow^n  things  glorify,  and  raise  their  worth. 

As  weeds  seem  flowers  beneath  the  flattering  brine, 

And  stones  like  gems,  and  gems  as  gems  indeed, 

Ev'n  so  our  tokens  shine  ;  nay,  they  outshine 

Pebbles  and  pearls,  and  gems  and  coral  weed  ; 

For  where  be  ocean  waves  but  half  so  clear. 

So  calmly  constant,  and  so  kindly  warm. 

As  Love's  most  mild  and  glowing  atmosphere, 

That  hath  no  dregs  to  be  upturn 'd  by  storm  ? 

Thus,  sweet,  thy  gracious  gifts  are  gifts  of  price. 

And  more  than  gold  to  doting  Avarice. 


SONNETS.  187 


VII. 

SILENCE. 


There  is  a  silence  where  hath  been  no  sound, 

There  is  a  silence  where  no  sound  may  be, 

In  the  cold  grave — under  the  deep,  deep  sea, 

Or  in  wide  desert  where  no  life  is  found, 

Which  hath  been  mute,  and  still  must  sleep  profound  ; 

No  voice  is  hush'd — no  life  treads  silently. 

But  clouds  and  cloudy  shadows  wander  free, 

That  never  spoke,  over  the  idle  ground  : 

But  in  green  ruins,  in  the  desolate  walls 

Of  antique  palaces,  where  Man  hath  been, 

Though  the  dun  fox,  or  wild  hyena,  calls. 

And  owls,  that  flit  continually  between, 

Shriek  to  the  echo,  and  the  low  winds  moan. 

There  the  true  Silence  is,  self-conscious  and  alone. 


188  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


VIII. 

The  curse  of  Adam,  the  old  curse  of  all, 

Though  I  inherit  in  this  feverish  life 

Of  worldly  toil,  vain  wishes,  and  hard  strife, 

And  fruitless  thought,  in  Care's  eternal  thrall, 

Yet  more  sweet  honey  than  of  bitter  gall 

I  taste,  through  thee,  my  Eva,  my  sweet  wife. 

Then  what  was  Man's  lost  Paradise ! — how  rife 

Of  bliss,  since  love  is  with  him  in  his  fall ! 

Such  as  our  own  pure  passion  still  might  frame, 

Of  this  fair  earth,  and  its  delightful  bow'rs, 

If  no  fell  sorrow,  like  the  serpent,  came 

To  trail  its  venom  o'er  the  sweetest  flow'rs  ; — 

But  oh  !  as  many  and  such  tears  are  ours. 

As  only  should  be  shed  for  guilt  and  shame  ! 


SONNETS.  .  189 


IX. 

Love,  dearest  Lady,  such  as  I  would  speak 
Lives  not  within  the  humor  of  the  eye  ; — 
Not  being  but  an  outward  phantasy, 
That  skims  the  surface  of  a  tinted  cheek, — 
Else  it  would  wane  with  beauty,  and  grow  weak. 
As  if  the  rose  made  summer, — and  so  lie 
Amongst  the  perishable  things  that  die. 
Unlike  the  love  which  I  would  give  and  seek  : 
Whose  health  is  of  no  hue — to  feel  decay 
With  cheeks'  decay,  that  have  a  rosy  prime. 
Love  is  its  own  great  loveliness  alway. 
And  takes  new  lustre  from  the  touch  of  time  ; 
Its  bough  owns  no  December  and  no  May, 
But  bears  its  blossom  into  Winter's  clime. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE    WORKHOUSE    CLOCK. 

AN  ALLEGORY. 


There  's  a  murmur  in  the  air, 

And  noise  in  every  street — 
The  murmur  of  many  tongues, 

The  noise  of  numerous  feet — 
While  round  the  Workhouse  door 

The  Laboring  Classes  flock  ; 
For  why  ?  the  Overseer  of  the  Poor 

Is  setting  the  Workhouse  Clock. 

Who  does  not  hear  tlie  tramp 

Of  thousands  speeding  along 
Of  either  sex  and  various  stamp. 

Sickly,  crippled,  or  strong, 
Walking,  limping,  creeping. 

From  court,  and  alley,  and  lane, 
But  all  in  one  direction  sweeping, 

Like  rivers  that  seek  the  main  ? 
Who  does  not  see  them  sally 

From  mill,  and  garret,  and  room. 
In  lane,  and  court,  and  alley. 
From  homes  in  poverty's  lowest  valley, 

Furnished  with  shuttle  and  loom — 
Poor  slaves  of  Civilisation's  galley — 

10 


194  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


And  in  the  road  and  footways  rally, 

As  if  for  the  Day  of  Doom  ? 
Some,  of  hardly  human  form, 

Stunted,  crooked,  and  crippled  by  toil ; 

Dingy  with  smoke,  and  dust,  and  oil. 

And  smirch'd  besides  with  vicious  soil, 
Clustering,  mustering,  all  in  a  swarm. 

Father,  mother,  and  careful  child. 

Looking  as  if  it  had  never  smiled — 
The  Sempstress,  lean,  and  weary,  and  wan, 
With  only  the  ghosts  of  garments  on — 

The  Weaver,  her  sallow  neighbor ; 
The  grim  and  sooty  Artisan  ; 
Every  soul — child,  woman,  or  man, 
.    Who  lives — or  dies — by  labor. 

Stirred  bv  an  overwhelmina;  zeal. 

And  social  impulse,  a  terrible  throng  ! 
Leaving  shuttle,  and  needle,  and  wheel. 
Furnace,  and  grindstone,  spindle,  and  reel, 
Thread,  and  yarn,  and  iron,  and  steel — 
Yea,  rest  and  the  yet  untasted  meal — 

Gushing,  rushing,  crushing  along, 
A  very  torrent  of  Man  ! 

Urged  by  the  sighs  of  sorrow  and  wrong, 

Grown  at  last  to  a  Imrricane  strong. 
Stop  its  course  who  can  ! 

Stop  who  can  its  onward  course 

And  irresistible  moral  force  ; 
O  !  vain  and  idle  dream  ! 

For  surely  as  men  are  all  akin, 

Whether  of  fair  or  sable  skin. 
According  to  Nature's  scheme, 


THE  WORKHOUSE  CLOCK.  195 

That  Human  Movement  contains  within, 
A  Blood-Power  stronger  than  Steam. 

Onward,  onward,  with  hasty  feet, 

Thev  swarm — and  westward  still —  "    » 

Masses  born  to  drink  and  eat, 
•  But  starving  amidst  Whitechapel's  meat, 

And  famishing  down  Cornhill !  - 

Through  the  Poultry — but  still  unfed —    . 
Christian  charity,  hang  your  head  ! 
Hungry — passing  the  Street  of  Bread  j 

Thirsty — the  Street  of  Milk  ; 
Ragged — beside  the  Ludgate  Mart, 
So  gorgeous,  through  Mechanic-Art, 

With  cotton,  and  wool,  and  silk  ! 

At  last,  before  that  door 

That  bears  so  many  a  knock, 
Ere  ever  it  opens  to  Sick  or  Poor, 

Like  sheep  they  huddle  and  flock — 
And  would  that  all  the  Good  and  Wise 
Could  see  the  Million  of  hollow  eyes. 
With  a  gleam  deriv'd  from  Hope  and  the  skies, 

Upturn'd  to  the  Workhouse  Clock ! 

Oh  !  that  the  Parish  Powers, 
Who  regulate  Labor's  hours. 

The  daily  amount  of  human  trial, 

Weariness,  pain,  and  self-denial. 

Would  turn  from  the  artificial  dial 
That  striketh  ten  or  eleven. 

And  go,  for  once,  by  that  older  one 

That  stands  in  the  light  of  Nature's  sun, 
And  takes  its  time  from  Heaven  ! 


To  the  Editor  of  the  Athenmum. 
My  dear  Sir, — The  following  Ode  was  written  anticipating  the  tone  of 
some  strictures  on  my  writings,  by  the  gentleman  to  whom  it  is  addressed. 
I  have  not  seen  his  book  ;  but  I  know  by  hearsay  that  some  of  my  verses 
are  characterized  as  "  profaneness  and  ribaldry  " — citing,  in  proof,  the 
description  of  a  certain  sow,  from  whose  jaw  a  cabbage  sprout — 

Protruded,  as  the  dove  so  staunch 
For  peace  supports  an  olive  branch. 

If  the  printed  works  of  my  Censor  had  not  prejDared  me  for  any  misappli- 
cation of  types,  I  should  have  been  surprised  by  this  misapprehension  of 
one  of  the  commonest  emblems.  In  some  cases  the  dove  unquestionably 
stands  for  the  Divine  Spirit ;  but  the  same  bird  is  also  a  lay  representative 
of  the  peace  of  this  world,  and,  as  such,  has  figured  time  out  of  mind  in 
allegorical  pictures.  The  sense  in  which  it  was  used  by  me  is  plain  from 
the  context ;  at  least,  it  would  be  plain  to  any  one  but  a  fisher  for  faults, 
predisposed  to  carp  at  some  things,  to  dab  at  others,  and  to  flounder  in  all. 
But  I  am  possibly  in  error.  It  is  the  female  swine,  perhaps,  that  is  pro- 
faned in  the  eyes  of  the  Oriental  tourist.  Men  find  strange  ways  of  mark- 
ing their  intolerance  ;  and  the  spirit  is  certainly  strong  enough,  in  Mr.  W.'s 
works,  to  set  up  a  creature  as  sacred,  in  sheer  opposition  to  the  Mussulman, 
with  whom  she  is  a  beast  of  abomination.  It  would  only  be  going  the 
whole  sow. 

I  am,  dear  Sir,  yours  very  truly, 

Thos.  Hood. 
1837. 


ODE  TO  RAE  WILSON,  ESQUIRE.  197 

\  "'  ■'>■'- 

ODE  TO  RAE  WILSON,  ESQUIRE. 


Close,  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 

And  weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice ; 

For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed. 

And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise  ! — Coleridge. 

It's  very  hard  them  kind  of  men 
Won't  let  a  body  he.— Old  Ballad. 

A  WANDERER,  Wilson,  from  my  native  land, 
Remote,  O  Rae,  from  godliness  and  thee, 
Where  rolls  between  us  the  eternal  sea, 
Besides  some  frirlongs  of  a  foreign  sand, — 
Beyond  the  broadest  Scotch  of  London  Wall ; 
Beyond  the  loudest  Saint  that  has  a  call ; 
Across  the  wavy  waste  between  us  stretch'd, 
A  friendly  missive  warns  me  of  a  stricture, 
Wherein  my  likeness  you  have  darkly  etch'd. 
And  tho'  I  have  not  seen  the  shadow  sketch'd, 
Thus  I  remark  prophetic  on  the  picture. 

I  guess  the  features : — in  a  line  to  paint 
Their  moral  ugliness,  I'm  not  a  saint. 
Not  one  of  those  self-constituted  saints, 
Quacks — not  physicians — in  the  cure  of  souls, 
Censors  who  sniff  out  mortal  taints. 
And  call  the  devil  over  his  own  coals — 


198  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


Those  pseudo  Privy  Councillors  of  God, 

Who  write  down  judgments  with  a  pen  hard-nibb'd ; 

Ushers  of  Beelzebub's  Black  Rod, 
Commending  sinners,  not  to  ice  thick- ribb'd. 
But  endless  flames,  to  scorch  them  up  like  flax — 
Yet  sure  of  heav'n  themselves,  as  if  they'd  cribb'd 
Th'  impression  of  St.  Peter's  keys  in  wax!  ' 

Of  such  a  character  no  single  trace 

Exists,  I  know,  in  my  fictitious  face ; 

There  wants  a  certain  cast  about  the  eye ; 

A  certain  lifting  of  the  nose's  tip  ; 

A  certain  curling  of  the  nether  lip, 

In  scorn  of  all  that  is,  beneath  the  sky ; 

In  brief  it  is  an  aspect  deleterious, 

A  face  decidedly  not  serious, 

A  face  profane,  that  would  not  do  at  all 

To  make  a  face  at  Exeter  Hall, — 

That  Hall  where  bigots  rant,  and  cant,  and  pray, 

And  laud  each  other  face  to  face. 

Till  ev'ry  farthing-candle  ray 

Conceives  itself  a  great  gas-light  of  grace  ! 

Well ! — be  the  graceless  lineaments  confest ! 
I  do  enjoy  this  bounteous  beauteous  earth ;     ■ 

And  dote  upon  a  jest 
"  Within  the  limits  of  becoming  mirth  ;" — 
No  solemn  sanctimonious  face  I  pull, 
Nor  think  I  'm  pious  when  I  'm  only  bilious — 
Nor  study  in  my  sanctum  supercilious 
To  frame  a  Sabbath  Bill  or  forge  a  Bull. 
I  pray  for  grace — repent  each  sinful  act — 
Peruse,  but  underneath  the  rose,  my  Bible  ; 


ODE  TO  RAE  WILSON,  ESQUIRE.  199 

And  love  my  neighbor  far  too  well,  in  fact, 
To  call  and  twit  him  with  a  godly  tract 
That's  turn'd  by  application  to  a  libel. 
My  heart  ferments  not  with  the  bigot's  leaven, 
All  creeds  I  view  with  toleration  thorough, 
And  have  a  horror  of  regarding  heaven 
As  anybody's  rotten  borough. 

What  else  ?  no  part  I  take  in  party  fray, 

With  tropes  from  Billinsgate's  slang-whanging  tartars, 

I  fear  no  Pope — and  let  great  Ernest  play 

At  Fox  and  Goose  with  Fox's  Martyrs  ! 

I  own  I  laugh  ar  over-righteous  men, 

I  own  I  shake  my  sides  at  ranters, 

And  treat  sham-Abr'am  saints  with  wicked  banters, 

I  even  own,  that  there  are  times — but  then 

It 's  when  I  've  got  my  wine — I  say  d canters  ! 

I  've  no  ambition  to  enact  the  spy 

On  fellow  souls,  a  Spiritual  Pry — 

'Tis  said  that  people  ought  to  guard  their  noses 

Who  thrust  them  into  matters  none  of  theirs  ; 

And  tho'  no  delicacy  discomposes 

Your  Saint,  yet  1  consider  faith  and  pray'rs 

Amongst  the  privatest  of  men's  affairs. 

1  do  not  hash  the  Gospel  in  my  books, 
And  thus  upon  the  public  mind  intrude  it, 
As  if  I  thought,  like  Otaheitan  cooks. 
No  food  was  fit  to  eat  till  I  had  chew'd  it. 
On  Bible  stilts  1  don't  affect  to  stalk  ; 
Nor  lard  with  Scripture  my  familiar  talk, — 

For  man  may  pious  texts  repeat, 
And  yet  religion  have  no  inward  seat ; 


200  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


'Tis  not  so  plain  as  the  old  Hill  of  Howth, 
A  man  has  got  his  bellyfuU  of  meat 
Because  he  talks  with  victuals  in  his  mouth  ! 

Mere  verbiage, — it  is  not  worth  a  carrot ! 
Why,  Socrates  or  Plato — where's  the  odds  ? — 
Once  taught  a  jay  to  supplicate  the  Gods, 
And  made  a  Polly-theist  of  a  Parrot ! 

A  mere  professor,  spite  of  all  his  cant,  is 

Not  a  whit  better  than  a  Mantis, — 
An  insect,  of  what  clime  I  can't  determine. 
That  lifts  its  paws  most  parson-like,  and  thence, 
By  simple  savages — thro'  sheer  pretence — 
Is  reckon'd  quite  a  saint  amongst  the  vermin. 

But  where's  the  reverence,  or  where  the  nous, 
To  ride  on  one's  religion  thro'  the  lobby, 
Whether  as  stalking-horse  or  hobby, 
To  show  its  pious  paces  to  "  the  House  ?" 

I  honestly  confess  that  I  would  hinder 
The  Scottish  member's  legislative  rigs. 

That  spiritual  Pinder, 
Who  looks  on  erring  souls  as  straying  pigs, 
That  must  be  lash'd  by  law,  wherever  found, 
And  driv'n  to  church,  as  to  the  parish  pound. 
I  do  confess,  without  reserve  or  wheedle, 
1  view  that  grovelling  idea  as  one 
Worthy  some  parish  clerk's  ambitious  son, 
A  charity-boy  who  longs  to  be  a  beadle. 

On  such  a  vital  topic  sure  'tis  odd 

How  much  a  man  can  differ  from  his  neighbor : 


ODE  TO  RAE  WILSON,  -ESQUIRE.  201 

One  wishes  worship  freely  giv'n  to  God, 

Another  wants  to  make  it  statute-labor — 

The  broad  distinction  in  a  line  to  draw, 

As  means  to  lead  us  to  the  skies  above, 

You  say — Sir  Andrew  and  his  love  of  law,         . 

And  I — the  Saviour  with  his  law  of  love. 

Spontaneously  to  God  should  tend  the  soul, 

Like  the  magnetic  needle  to  the  Pole  ;  .  ' 

But  what  were  that  intrinsic  virtue  worth, 

Suppose  some  fellow,  with  more  zeal  than  knowledge, 

Fresh  from  St.  Andrew's  College, 
Should  nail  the  conscious  needle  to  the  north  ? 

I  do  confess  that  I  abhor  and  shrink 

From  schemes,  with  a  religious  willy-nilly. 

That  frown  upon  St.  Giles's  sins,  but  blink 

The  peccadilloes  of  all  Piccadilly — 

My  soul  revolts  at  such  a  bare  liypocrisy. 

And  will  not,  dare  not,  fancy  in  accord 

The  Lord  of  Hosts  with  an  Exclusive  Lord 

Of  this  world's  aristocracy. 
It  will  not  own  a  notion  so  unholy, 
As  thinking  that  the  rich  by  easy  trips 
May  go  to  heav'n,  whereas  the  poor  and  lowly 
Must  work  their  passage,  as  they  do  in  ships. 

One  place  there  is — beneath  the  burial  sod 
Where  all  mankind  are  equalized  by  death  ; 
Another  place  tliere  is — the  Fane  of  God, 
Where  all  are  equal  who  draw  living  breath  ; — 
Juggle  who  will  elsewhere  with  his  own  soul, 
Playing  the  Judas  with  a  temporal  dole — 

10* 


202  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


He  who  can  come  beneath  that  awful  cope, 
In  the  dread  presence  of  a  Maker  just, 
Who  metes  to  ev'ry  pinch  of  human  dust 
One  even  measure  of  immortal  hope — 
He  who  can  stand  within  that  holy  door. 
With  soul  unbow'd  by  that  pure  spirit-level, 
And  frame  unequal  laws  for  rich  and  poor, — 
Might  sit  for  Hell  and  represent  the  Devil  ! 

Such  are  the  solemn  sentiments,  O  Rae, 

In  your  last  Journey- Work,  perchance  you  ravage, 

Seeming,  but  in  more  courtly  terms,  to  say 

I'm  but  a  heedless,  creedless,  godless,  savage  ; 

A  very  Guy,  deserving  fire  and  fagots, — 

A  Scoffer,  always  on  the  grin. 
And  sadly  given  to  the  mortal  sin 
Of  liking  Mawworms  less  than  merry  maggots ! 

The  humble  records  of  my  life  to  searcli, 

I  have  not  herded  with  mere  pagan  beasts ; 

But  sometimes  I  have  "  sat  at  good  men's  feasts," 

And  I  have  been  "  where  bells  have  knoll'd  to  church." 

Dear  bells  !  how  sweet  the  sounds  of  village  bells 

When  on  the  undulating  air  they  swim  ! 

Now  loud  as  welcomes  !  faint,  now,  as  farewells  ! 

And  trembling  all  about  the  breezy  dells 

As  flutter'd  by  the  wings  of  Cherubim. 

Meanwhile  the  bees  are  chanting  a  low  hymn  ; 

And  lost  to  sight  th'  ecstatic  lark  above 

Sings,  like  a  soul  beatified,  of  love, — 

With,  now  and  then,  the  coo  of  the  wild  pigeon  ; — 

O  Pagans,  Heathens,  Infidels,  and  Doubters  ! 

If  such  sweet  sounds  can't  woo  you  to  religion. 

Will  the  harsh  voices  of  church  cads  and  touters  ? 


ODE  TO  RAE  WILSON,  ESQUIRE.  203 

A  man  may  cry  Church  !  Church  !  at  ev'ry  word, 

With  no  more  piety  than  other  people — 

A  daw  's  not  reckon'd  a  religious  bird 

Because  it  keeps  a-cawing  from  a  steeple.  - 

The  Temple  is  a  good,  a  holy  place. 

But  quacking  only  gives  it  an  ill  savor  ; 

While  saintly  mountebanks  the  porch  disgrace. 

And  bring  religion's  self  into  disfavor  ! 

Behold  yon  servitor  of  God  and  Mammon, 
Who,  binding  up  his  Bible  with  his  Ledger, 

Blends  Gospel  texts  with  trading  gammon, 
A  black-leg  saint,  a  spiritual  hedger, 
Who  backs  his  rigid  Sabbath,  so  to  speak, 
Against  the  wicked  remnant  of  the  week, 
A  saving  bet  against  his  sinful  bias — 
"  Rogue  that  I  am,"  he  whispers  to  himself,   ' 
"I  lie — I  cheat — do  anything  for  pelf. 
But  who  on  earth  can  say  I  am  not  pious  ?" 

In  proof  how  over-righteousness  re-acts. 
Accept  an  anecdote  well  bas'd  on  facts. 

One  Sunday  morning — (at  the  day  don't  fret) — 

In  riding  with  a  friend  to  Ponder's  End 

Outside  the  stage,  we  happen'd  to  commend 

A  certain  mansion  that  wc  saw  To  Let. 

"  Aye,"  cried  our  coachman,  with  our  talk  to  grapple, 

"  You're  right !  no  house  along  the  road  comes  nigh  it ! 

'Twas  built  by  the  same  man  as  built  yon  chapel, 

And  master  wanted  once  to  buy  it, — 
But  t'other  driv  the  bargain  much  too  hard — 

He  ax'd  sure-Zy  a  sum  purdigious  ! 


204  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


But  being  so  particular  religious, 

Why,  that,  you  see,  put  master  on  his  guard  !" 

Church  is  "  a  little  heav'n  below,. 
I  have  been  there  and  still  would  go," — 
Yet  I  am  none  of  those  who  think  it  odd 

A  man  can  pray  unbidden  from  the  cassock, 
And,  passing  by  the  customary  hassock, 
'Kneel  down  remote  upon  the  simple  sod. 
And  sue  in  forma  pauperis  to  God. 

As  for  the  rest, — intolerant  to  none. 
Whatever  shape  the  pious  rite  may  bear, 
Ev'n  the  poor  Pagan's  homage  to  the  Sun 
I  would  not  harshly  scorn,  lest  even  there 
I  spurn'd  some  elements  of  Christian  pray'r — 
An  aim,  tho'  erring,  at  a  "  world  ayont  " — 

Acknowledgment  of  good — of  man's  futility, 
A  sense  of  need,  and  weakness,  and  indeed 
That  very  thing  so  many  Christians  want — 
Humility. 

Such,  unto  Papists,  Jews  or  turban'd  Turks, 
Such  is  my  spirit — (I  don't  mean  my  wraith  !) 
Such,  may  it  please  you,  is  my  humble  faith  ; 
I  know,  full  well,  you  do  not  like  mj  works  f 
I  have  not  sought,  'tis  true,  the  Holy  Land, 
As  full  of  texts  as  Cuddie  Headrigg's  mother, 
The  Bible  in  one  hand, 

And  my  own  common-place-book  in  the  other 

But  you  have  been  to  Palestine — alas  ! 
Some  minds  improve  by  travel,  others,  rather, 
.  Resemble  copper  w^ire,  or  brass. 


ODE  TO  RAE  WILSON,  ESQUIRE.  205 

Which  gets  the  narrower  by  going  farther  ! 
Worthless  are  all  such  Pilgrimages — very  ! 
If  Palmers  at  the  Holy  Tomb  contrive 
The  human  heats  and  rancor  to  revive 
That  at  the  Sepulchre  they  ought  to  bury. 
A  sorry  sight  it  is  to  rest  the  eye  on, 
To  see  a  Christian  creature  graze  at  Sion, 
Then  homeward,  of  the  saintly  pasture  full, 
Rush  bellowing,  and  breathing  fire  and  smoke, 
At  crippled  Papistry  to  butt  and  poke. 
Exactly  as  a  skittish  Scottish  bull 
Hunts  an  old  woman  in  a  scarlet  cloke  ? 

Why  leave  a  serious,  moral,  pious  home, 
Scotland,  renown'd  for  sanctity  of  old, 
Far  distant  Catholics  to  rate  and  scold 
For — doing  as  the  Romans  do  at  Rome  ? 
With  such  a  bristling  spirit  wherefore  quit 
The  Land  of  Cakes  for  any  land  of  wafers. 
About  the  graceless  images  to  flit, 
And  buzz  and  chafe  importunate  as  chafers, 
Longing  to  carve  the  carvers  to  Scotch  collops — ? 
People  who  hold  such  absolute  opinions 
Should  stay  at  home,  in  Protestant  dominions, 
Not  travel  like  male  Mrs.  Trollopes. 

Gifted  with  noble  tendency  to  climb, 
Yet  weak  at  the  same  time, 
Faith  is  a  kind  of  parasitic  plant, 
That  grasps  the  nearest  stem  with  tendril-rings  • 
And  as  the  climate  and  the  soil  may  grant. 
So  is  the  sort  of  tree  to  which  it  clings. 
Consider  then,  before,  like  Hurlothrumbo, 


206  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


You  aim  your  club  at  any  creed  on  earth, 

Tliat,  by  the  simple  accident  of  birth, 

You  might  have  been  High  Priest  to  Mumbo  Jumbo. 

For  me — thro'  heathen  ignorance  perchance, 

Not  having  knelt  in  Palestine, — I  feel 

None  of  that  griffinish  excess  of  zeal, 

Some  travellers  would  blaze  with  here  in  France. 

Dolls  I  can  see  in  Virgin-like  array, 

Nor  for  a  scuffle  with  the  idols  hanker 

Like  crazy  Quixotte  at  the  puppet's  play. 

If  their  "  offence  be  rank,"  should  mine  be  rancour? 

Mild  light,  and  by  degrees,  should  be  the  plan 

To  cure  the  dark  and  erring  mind  ; 

But  who  would  rush  at  a  benighted  man, 

And  give  him  two  black  eyes  for  being  blind  ? 

Suppose  the  tender  but  luxuriant  hop 
Around  a  canker'd  stem  should  twine, 
What  Kentish  boor  would  tear  away  the  prop 
So  roughly  as  to  wound,  nay  kill  the  bine  ? 

The  images,  'tis  true,  are  strangely  dress'd. 
With  gauds  and  toys  extremely  out  of  season  ; 
The  carving  nothing  of  the  very  best. 
The  whole  repugnant  to  the  eye  of  reason, 
Shocking  to  Taste,  and  to  Fine  Arts  a  treason — 
Yet  ne'er  o'erlook  in  bigotry  of  sect 
One  truly  Catholic,  one  common  form, 

At  which  uncheck'd 
All  Christian  hearts  may  kindle  or  keep  warm. 

Say,  was  it  to  my  spirit's  gain  or  loss, 
One  bright  and  balmy  morning,  as  I  went 


ODE  TO  RAE  WILSON,  ESQUIRE.  207 

From  Liege's  lovely  environs  to  Ghent, 

If  hard  by  the  wayside  I  found  a  cross, 

That  made  me  breathe  a  pray'r  upon  the  spot — 

While  Nature  of  herself,  as  if  to  trace 

The  emblem's  use,  had  trail'd  around  its  base 

The  blue  significant  Forget-Me-Not  ? 

Methought,  the  claims  of  charity  to  urge 

More  forcibly,  along  with  Faith  and  Hope, 

The  pious  choice  had  pitch'd  upon  the  verge 

Of  a  delicious  slope, 
Giving  the  eye  much  variegated  scope  ; — 
"  Look  round,"  it  whisper'd,  "on  that  prospect  rare, 
Those  vales  so  verdant,  and  those  hills  so  blue  ; 
Enjoy  the  sunny  world,  so  fresh,  and  fair. 
But  " — (how  the  simple  legend  pierc'd  me  thro' !) 

"  Priez  pour  les  Malheureux." 

With  sweet  kind  natures,  as  in  honey'd  cells. 

Religion  lives,  and  feels  herself  at  home  ; 

But  only  on  a  formal  visit  dwells 

Where  wasps  instead  of  bees  have  formed  the  comb. 

Shun  pride,  O  Rao  ! — whatever  sort  beside 
You  take  in  lieu,  shun  spiritual  pride  ! 
A  pride  there  is  of  rank — a  pride  of  birth, 
A  pride  of  learning,  and  a  pride  of  purse, 
A  London  pride — in  short,  there  be  on  earth 
A  host  of  prides,  some  better  and  some  worse  ; 
But  of  all  prides,  since  Lucifer's  attaint, 
The  proudest  swells  a  self-elected  Saint. 

To  picture  that  cold  pride  so  harsh  and  hard, 
Fancy  a  peacock  in  a  poultry  yard. 
Behold  liim  in  conceited  circles  sail. 


208  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


Strutting  and  dancing,  and  now  planted  stiff, 
In  all  his  pomp  of  pageantry,  as  if 
He  felt  "  the  eyes  of  Europe  "  on  his  tail ! 
As  for  the  humble  breed  retain'd  by  man. 

He  scorns  the  whole  domestic  clan — 

He  bows,  he  bridles, 

He  wheels,  he  sidles, 
At  last,  with  stately  dodgings  in  a  corner 
He  pens  a  simple  russet  hen,  to  scorn  her 
Full  in  the  blaze  of  his  resplendent  fan  ! 

"  Look  here,"  he  cries  (to  give  him  words), 

"  Thou  feather'd  clay — thou  scum  of  birds  !" 
Flirting  the  rustling  plumage  in  her  eyes, — 
"  Look  here,  thou  vile  predestin'd  sinner. 

Doomed  to  be  roasted  for  a  dinner, 
Behold  these  lovely  variegated  dyes  ! 
These  are  the  rainbow  colors  of  the  skies. 
That  heav'n  has  shed  upon  me  con  amore — 
A  Bird  of  Paradise  ? — a  pretty  story  ! 
/  am  that  Saintly  Fowl,  thou  paltry  chick  ! 

Look  at  my  crown  of  glory  ! 
Thou  dingy,  dirty,  drabbled,  draggled  jill !" 
And  off  goes  Partlet,  wriggling  from  a  kick, 
With  bleeding  scalp  laid  open  by  his  bill ! 
That  little  simile  exactly  paints 
How  sinners  are  despis'd  by  saints. 
By  saints ! — the  Hypocrites  that  ope  heav'n's  door 
Obsequious  to  the  sinful  man  of  riches — 
But  put  the  wicked,  naked,  barelegg'd  poor. 

In  parish  stocks  instead  of  breeches. 

The  Saints ! — the  Bigots  that  in  public  spout. 
Spread  phosphorus  of  zeal  on  scraps  of  fustian, 


ODE  TO  RAE  WILSON,  ESQUIRE.  209 


And  go  like  walking  "  Lucifers  "  about 
Mere  living  bundles  of  combustion.. 

The  Saints  ! — the  aping  Fanatics  that  talk 
All  cant  and  rant,  and  rhapsodies  highflown — 

That  bid  you  baulk 

A  Sunday  walk, 
And  shun  God's  work  as  you  should  shun  your  own. 

The  Saints ! — the  Formalists,  the  extra  pious, 
Who  think  the  mortal  husk  can  save  the  soul, 
By  trundling  with  a  mere  mechanic  bias, 
To  church,  just  like  a  lignum-vitse  bowl ! 

The  Saints ! — the  Pharisees,  whose  beadle  stands 

Beside  a  stei*n  coercive  kirk. 

A  piece  of  human  mason- work, 
Calling  all  sermons  contrabands. 
In  that  great  Temple  that's  not  made  with  hands ! 

Thrice  blessed,  rather,  is  the  man  with  whom 
The  gracious  prodigality  of  nature, 
The  balm,  the  bliss,  the  beauty,  and  the  bloom, 
The  bounteous  providence  in  ev'ry  feature, 
Recall  the  good  Creator  to  his  creature, 
Making  all  earth  a  fane,  all  heav'n  its  dome  ! 
To  his  tun'd  spirit  the  wild  heather-bells 

Ring  Sabbath  knells  ; 
The  jubilate  of  the  soaring  lark 

Is  chant  of  clerk  ; 
For  choir,  the  thrush  and  the  gregarious  linnet ; 
The  sod's  a  cushion  for  his  pious  waot ; 
And,  consecrated  by  the  heav'n  within  it, 


210  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


The  sky-blue  pool,  a  font. 
Each  cloud-capp'd  mountain  is  a  holy  altar  ; 

An  organ  breathes  in  every  grove  ; 
■  And  the  full  heart's  a  Psalter, 
Rich  in  deep  hymns  of  gratitude  and  love  ! 

Sufficiently  by  stern  necessitarians 

Poor  Nature,  with  her  face  begrim'd  by  dust. 

Is  stok'd,  cok'd,  smok'd,  and  almost  chok'd  ;  but  must 

Religion  have  its  own  Utilitarians, 

Labell'd  with  evangelical  phylacteries, 

To  make  the  road  to  heav'n  a  railway  trust, 

And  churches — that's  the  naked  fact — mere  factories  ? 

Oh  !  simply  open  wide  the  Temple  door. 
And  let  the  solemn,  swelling,  organ  greet, 

With  Voluntaries  meet. 
The  willing  advent  of  the  rich  and  poor  ! 
And  while  to  God  the  loud  Hosannas  soar. 
With  rich  vibrations  from  the  vocal  throng — 
From  quiet  shades  that  to  the  woods  belong, 

And  brooks  with  music  of  their  own. 
Voices  may  come  to  swell  the  choral  song 
With  notes  of  praise  they  learn'd  in  musings  lone. 

How  strange  it  is  while  on  all  vital  questions, 
That  occupy  the  House  and  public  mind, 
We  always  meet  with  some  humane  suggestions 
Of  gentle  measures  of  a  healing  kind, 
Instead  of  harsh  severity  and  vigor. 
The  Saint  alone  his  preference  retains 

For  bills  of  penalties  and  pains, 
And  marks  his  narrow  code  with  legal  rigor  ! 


ODE  TO  RAE  WILSON,  ESQUIRE.  211 

Why  shun,  as  worthless  of  affiliation, 
What  men  of  all  political  persuasion 
Extol — and  even  use  upon  occasion — 
That  Christian  principle,  conciliation  ? 
But  possibly  the  men  who  make  such  fuss 
With  Sunday  pippins  and  old  Trots  infirm. 
Attach  some  other  meaning  to  the  term, 
As  thus : 

One  market  morning,  in  my  usual  rambles, 
Passing  along  Whitechapel's  ancient  shambles, 
Where  meat  was  hung  in  many  a  joint  and  quarter, 
I  had  to  halt  awhile,  like  other  folks. 

To  let  a  killing  butcher  coax 
A  score  of  lambs  and  fatted  sheep  to  slaughter. 
A  sturdy  man  he  look'd  to  fell  an  ox, 
Bull-fronted,  ruddy,  with  a  formal  streak 
Of  well-greas'd  hair  down  either  cheek. 
As  if  he  dec-dash-dee'd  some  other  flocks 
Beside  those  woolly-headed  stubborn  blocks 
That  stood  before  him,  in  vexatious  huddle — 
Poor  little  lambs,  with  bleating  wethers  group'd, 
While,  now  and  then,  a  thirsty  creature  stoop'd 
And  meekly  snufF'd,  but  did  not  taste  the  puddle. 

•  - 

Fierce  bark'd  the  dog,  and  many  a  blow  was  dealt, 

That  loin,  and  chump,  and  scrag  and  saddle  felt, 

Yet  still,  that  fatal  step  they  all  declin'd  it, — 

And  shunn'd  tlie  tainted  door  as  if  they  smelt 

Onions,  mint  sauce,  and  lemon  juice  behind  it. 

At  last  there  came  a  pause  of  brutal  force,  '  ■ 

The  cur  was  silent,  for  his  jaws  were  full 

Of  tangled  locks  of  tarry  wool, 


212  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


The  man  had  whoop'd  and  hollow 'd  till  dead  hoarse, 
The  time  was  ripe  for  mild  expostulation, 
And  thus  it  stammer'd  from  a  stander-by — 
"  Zounds  ! — my  good  fellow, — it  quite  makes  me — why. 
It  really — my  dear  fellow — do  just  try 
Conciliation !" 

Stringing  his  nerves  like  flint, 
The  sturdy  butcher  seiz'd  upon  the  hint, — 
At  least  he  seiz'd  upon  the  foremost  wether, — 
And  hugg'd  and  lugg'd  and  tugg'd  him  neck  and  crop 
Just  nolens  volens  thro'  the  open  shop — 
If  tails  come  off  he  didn't  care  a  feather, — 
Then  walking  to  the  door,  and  smiling  grim, 
He  rubb'd  his  forehead  and  his  sleeve  together — 
"  There  ! — I've  conciliated  him  !" 

Again — good-humoredly  to  end  our  quarrel — 
(Good  humor  should  prevail !) 
I'll  fit  you  with  a  tale 
Whereto  is  tied  a  moral. 

Once  on  a  time  a  certain  English  lass 

Was  seiz'd  with  symptoms  of  such  deep  decline, 

Cough,  hectic,  flushes,  ev'ry  evil  sign. 

That,  as  their  wont  is  at  such  desperate  pass. 

The  Doctors  gave  her  over — to  an  ass. 

Accordingly,  the  grisly  Shade  to  bilk, 

Each  morn  the  patient  quaff" 'd  a  frothy  bowl 

Of  asinine  new  milk, 
Robbing  a  shaggy  suckling  of  a  foal 
Which  got  proportionably  spare  and  skinny — 
Meanwhile  the  neighbors  cried  "  poor  Mary  Ann ! 


ODE  TO  RAE  WILSON,  ESQUIRE.  213 


She  can't  get  over  it !  she  never  can  !" 
When  lo  !  to  prove  each  prophet  was  a  ninny 
The  one  that  died  was  the  poor  wetnurse  Jenny. 

To  aggravate  the  case, 
There  were  but  two  grown  donkeys  in  the  place  ; 
And  most  unluckily  for  Eve's  sick  daughter, 
The  other  long-ear'd  creature  was  a  male. 
Who  never  in  his  life  had  given  a  pail 

Of  milk,  or  even  chalk  and  water. 
No  matter :  at  the  usual  hour  of  eight 
Down  trots  a  donkey  to  the  wicket-gate, 
With  Mister  Simon  Gubbins  on  its  back, — 
"  Your  sarvant,  Miss, — a  worry  spring-like  day, — 
Bad  time  for  basses  tho' !  good  lack  !  good  lack  ! 
Jenny  be  dead.  Miss, — but  I'ze  brought  ye  Jack, 
He  doesn't  give  no  milk — but  he  can  bray." 

So  runs  the  story. 
And,  in  vain  self-gloiy, 

Some  Saints  would  sneer  at  Gubbins  for  his  blindness — 
But  what  the  better  are  their  pious  saws 
To  ailing  souls,  than  dry  hee-haws. 
Without  the  milk  of  human  kindness  ? 


214  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


THE   TWO   SWANS. 

A  FAIRY  TALE. 


1. 


Immortal  Imogen,  crown'd  queen  above 
The  lilies  of  thy  sex,  vouchsafe  to  hear 
A  fairy  dream  in  honor  of  true  love — 
True  above  ills,  and  frailty,  and  all  fear — 
Perchance  a  shadow  of  his  own  career 
Whose  youth  was  darkly  prison'd  and  long  twined 
By  serpent-sorrow,  till  white  Love  drew  near, 
And  sweetly  sang  him  free,  and  round  his  mind 
A  bright  horizon  threw,  wherein  no  grief  may  wind. 


II. 


I  saw  a  tower  builded  on  a  lake, 
Mock'd  by  its  inverse  shadow,  dark  and  deep — 
That  seem'd  a  still  intenser  night  to  make, 
Wherein  the  quiet  waters  sunk  to  sleep, — 
And,  whatsoe'er  was  prisoned  in  that  keep, 
A  monstrous  Snake  was  warden  :■. — round  and  round 
In  sable  ringlets  I  beheld  him  creep 
Blackest  amid  black  shadows  to  the  ground, 
Whilst  his  enormous  head  the  topmost  turi-et  crown'd. 


THE  TWO  SWANS.  213 


III. 


From  whence  he  shot  fierce  light  against  the  stars, 
Making  the  pale  moon  paler  with  affright ; 
And  with  his  ruby  eye  out-threaten'd  Mars, 
That  blazed  in  the  mid-heavens,  hot  and  bright — 
Nor  slept,  nor  wink'd,  but  with  a  steadfast  spite, 
Watch'd  their  wan  looks  and  tremblings  in  the  skies, 
And  that  he  might  not  slumber  in  the  night, 
The  curtain-lids  were  pluck'd  from  his  large  eyes, 
So  he  might  never  drowse,  but  watch  his  secret  prize. 


IV. 


Prince  or  princess  in  dismal  durance,  pent,  . 
Victims  of  old  Enchantment's  love  or  hate, 
Their  lives  must  all  in  painful  sighs  be  spent. 
Watching  the  lonely  waters  soon  and  late. 
And  clouds  that  pass  and  leave  them  to  their  fate, 
Or  company  their  grief  with  heavy  tears  : — 
Meanwhile  that  Hope  can  spy  no  golden  gate 
For  sweet  escapement,  but  in  darksome  fears 
They  weep  and  pine  away,  as  if  immortal  years. 


No  gentle  bird  with  gold  upon  its  wing 
Will  perch  upon  the  grate — the  gentle  bird 
Is  safe  in  leafy  dell,  and  will  not  bring 
Freedom's  sweet  key-note  and  commission  word 
Leam'd  of  a  fairy's  lips,  for  pity  stirr'd — 
Lest  while  he  trembling  sings,  untimely  guest ! 
Watch'd  by  that  cruel  Snake  and  darkly  heard. 
He  leave  a  widow  on  her  lonely  nest, 
To  press  in  silent  grief  the  darlings  of  her  breast. 


216  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


VI. 


No  gallant  knight,  adventurous,  in  his  bark, 
Will  seek  the  fruitful  perils  of  the  place, 
To  rouse  with  dipping  oar  the  waters  dark 
That  bear  that  serpent  image  on  their  face, 
And  Love,  brave  Love !  though  he  attempt  the  base, 
Nerved  to  his  royal  death,  he  may  not  win 
His  captive  lady  from  the  strict  embrace 
Of  that  foul  Serpent,  clasping  her  within 
His  sable  folds — like  Eve  enthralled  by  the  old  Sin. 


VII. 


But  there  is  none no  knight  in  panoply. 

Nor  Love,  intrench'd  in  his  strong  steely  coat : 
No  little  speck — no  sail — no  helper  nigh. 
No  sign — no  whispering — no  plash  of  boat : — 
The  distant  shores  show  dimly  and  remote, 
Made  of  a  deeper  mist, — serene  and  grey, — 
And  slow  and  mute  the  cloudy  shadows  float 
Over  the  gloomy  wave,  and  pass  away. 
Chased  by  the  silver  beams  that  on  their  marges  play. 


VIII. 


And  bright  and  silvery  the  willows  sleep 
Over  the  shady  verge — no  mad  winds  tease 
Their  hoary  heads  ;   but  quietly  they  weep 
There  sprinkling  leaves — half  fountains  and  half  trees 
There  lilies  be — and  fairer  than  all  these, 
A  solitary  Swan  her  breast  of  snow 
Launches  against  the  wave  that  seems  to  freeze 
Into  a  chaste  reflection,  still  below 
Twin  shadow  of  herself  wherever  she  may  go. 


THE  TWO  SWANS.  217 


IX. 


And  forth  she  paddles  in  the  very  noon 
Of  solemn  midnight  like  an  elfin  thing, 
Charm'd  into  being  by  the  argent  moon — 
Whose  silver  light  for  love  of  her  fair  wing 
Goes  with  her  in  the  shade,  still  worshipping 
Her  dainty  plumage  : — all  around  her  grew 
A  radiant  circlet,  like  a  fairy  ring  ; 
And  all  behind,  a  tiny  little  clue 
Of  light,  to  guide  her  back  across  the  waters  blue. 


And  sure  she  is  no  meaner  than  a  fay, 
Redeem'd  from  sleepy  death,  for  beauty's  sake. 
By  old  ordainment : — silent  as  she  lay, 
Touch'd  by  a  moonlight  wand  I  saw  her  wake, 
And  cut  her  leafy  slough,  and  so  forsake 
The  verdant  prison  of  her  lily  peers. 
That  slept  amidst  the  stars  upon  the  lake — 
A  breathing  shape — restored  to  human  fears, 
And  new-born  love  and  grief — self-conscious  of  her  tears. 

zi. 

And  now  she  clasps  her  wings  around  her  heart, 
And  near  that  lonely  isle  begins  to  glide 
Pale  as  her  fears,  and  oft-times  with  a  start 
Turns  her  impatient  head  from  side  to  side 
In  universal  terrors — all  too  wide 
To  watch  ;  and  often  to  that  marble  keep 
Upturns  her  pearly  eyes,  as  if  she  spied 
Some  foe,  and  crouches  in  the  shadows  steep 
That  in  the  gloomy  wave  go  diving  fathoms  deep. 

11 


218  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


XII. 


And  well  she  may,  to  spy  that  fearful  thing 
All  down  the  dusky  walls  in  circlets  wound  ; 
Alas  !  for  what  rare  prize,  with  many  a  ring 
Girding  the  marble  casket  round  and  round  ? 
His  folded  tail,  lost  in  the  gloom  profound, 
Terribly  darkeneth  the  rocky  base  ; 
But  on  the  top  his  monstrous  head  is  crown'd 
With  prickly  spears,  and  on  his  doubtful  face 
Gleam  his  unwearied  eyes,  red  watchers  of  the  place. 


Alas !  of  the  hot  fires  that  nightly  fall. 
No  one  will  scorch  him  in  those  orbs  of  spite, 
So  he  may  never  see  beneath  the  wall 
That  timid  little  creature,  all  too  bright, 
That  stretches  her  fair  neck,  slender  and  white, 
Invoking  the  pale  moon,  and  vainly  tries 
Her  throbbing  throat,  as  if  to  charm  the  night 
With  song — but,  hush — it  perishes  in  sighs, 
And  there  will  be  no  dirge  sad-swelling,  though  she  dies ! 

XIV. 

She  droops,  she  sinks — she  leans  upon  the  lake, 
Fainting  asjain  into  a  lifeless  flower  : 
But  soon  the  chilly  springs  anoint  and  wake 
Her  spirit  from  its  death,  and  with  new  power 
She  sheds  her  stifled  sorrows  in  a  shower 
Of  tender  song,  timed  to  her  falling  tears — 
That  wins  the  shady  summit  of  that  tower, 
And,  trembling  all  the  sweeter  for  its  fears, 
Fills  with  imploring  moan  that  cruel  monster's  ears. 


THE  TWO  SWANS.  219 


XV. 


And,  lo  !  the  scaly  beast  is  all  deprest, 
Subdued  like  Argus  by  the  might  of  sound — 
What  time  Apollo  his  sweet  lute  addrest 
To  magic  converse  with  the  air,  and  bound 
The  many  monster  eyes,  all  slumber-drown'd  : — 
So  on  the  turret-top  that  watchful  Snake 
Pillows  his  giant  head,  and  lists  profound, 
As  if  his  wrathful  spite  would  never  wake, 
Charm'd  into  sudden  sleep  for  Love  and  Beauty's  sake ! 


XVI. 


His  prickly  crest  lies  prone  upon  his  crown, 
And  thirsty  lip  from  lip  disparted  flies, 
To  drink  that  dainty  flood  of  music  down — 
His  scaly  throat  is  big  with  pent-up  sighs — 
And  whilst  his  hollow  ear  entranced  lies. 
His  looks  for  envy  of  the  charmed  sense 
Are  fain  to  listen,  till  his  steadfast  eyes, 
Stung  into  pain  by  their  own  impotence, 
Distil  enormous  tears  into  the  lake  immense. 


XVII. 


Oh,  tuneful  swan!  oh,  melancholy  bird! 
Sweet  was  that  midnight  miracle  of  song. 
Rich  with  ripe  sorrow,  needful  of  no  word 
To  tell  of  pain,  and  love,  and  love's  deep  wrong — 
Hinting  a  piteous  tale — perchance  how  long 
Thy  unknown  tears  were  mingled  with  the  lake, 
What  time  disguised  thy  leafy  mates  among — 
And  no  eye  knew  what  human  love  and  ache 
Dwelt  in  those  dewy  leaves,  and  heart  so  nigh  to  break. 


220  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


xviir. 


Therefore  no  poet  will  ungently  touch 
The  water-lily,  on  whose  eyelids  dew 
Trembles  like  tears  ;  but  ever  hold  it  such 
4s  human  pain  may  wander  through  and  through, 
Turning  the  pale  leaf  paler  in  its  hue — 
Wherein  life  dwells,  transfigured,  not  entomb'd, 
By  magic  spells.     Alas  !  who  ever  knew 
Sorrow  in  all  its  shapes,  leafy  and  plumed, 
Or  in  gross  husks  of  brutes  eternally  inhumed  ? 

XIX. 

And  now  the  winged  song  has  scaled  the  height 
Of  that  dark  dwelling,  builded  for  despair, 
And  soon  a  little  casement  flashing  bright 
Widens  self-open'd  into  the  cool  air — 
That  music  like  a  bird  may  enter  there, 
And  soothe  the  captive  in  his  stony  cage  ; 
For  there  is  naught  of  grief,  or  painful  care. 
But  plaintive  song  may  happily  engage 
From  sense  of  its  own  ill,  and  tenderly  assuage. 

XX. 

And  forth  into  the  light,  small  and  remote, 
A  creature,  like  the  fair  son  of  a  king. 
Draws  to  the  lattice  in  his  jewell'd  coat 
Against  the  silver  moonlight  glistening. 
And  leans  upon  his  white  hand,  listening 
To  that  sweet  music  that  with  tenderer  tone 
Salutes  him,  wondering  what  kindly  thing 
Is  come  to  soothe  him  with  so  tuneful  moan, 
Singing  beneath  the  walls  as  if  for  him  alone ! 


THE  TWO  SWANS.  221 


XXI. 


And  while  he  listens,  the  mysterious  song, 
Woven  with  timid  particles  of  speech. 
Twines  into  passionate  words  that  grieve  along 
The  melancholy  notes,  and  softly  teach 
The  secrets  of  true  love, — that  trembling  reach, 
His  earnest  ear,  and  through  the  shadows  dun 
He  missions  like  replies,  and  each  to  each 
Their  silver  voices  mingle  into  one. 
Like  blended  streams  that  make  one  music  as  they  run. 


XXII. 


"  Ah !  Love,  my  hope  is  swooning  in  my  heart, — 
Ay,  sweet,  my  cage  is  strong  and  hung  full  high — 
Alas!  our  lips  are  held  so  far  apart, 
Thy  words  come  faint,  they  have  so  far  to  fly  ! — 
If  I  may  only  shun  that  serpent-eye, — 
Ah,  me  !  that  serpent-eye  doth  never  sleep  ; — 
Then,  nearer  thee.  Love's  martyr,  I  will  die  ! — 
Alas,  alas !  that  word  has  made  me  weep  ! 
For  pity's  sake  remain  safe  in  thy  marble  keep ! 


XXIII. 


"  My  marble  keep  !  it  is  my  marble  tomb — 
Nay,  sweet !  but  thou  hast  there  thy  living  breath- 
Aye  to  expend  in  sighs  for  this  hard  doom  j 
But  I  will  come  to  thee  and  sing  beneath. 
And  nightly  so  beguile  this  serpent  wreath  ; 
Nay,  I  will  find  a  path  from  these  despairs. 
Ah,  needs  then  thou  must  tread  the  back  of  death. 
Making  his  stony  ribs  thy  stony  stairs. — 
Behold  his  ruby  eye,  how  fearfully  it  glares  !" 


222  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


XXIV. 


Full  sudden  at  these  words  the  princely  youth 
Leaps  on  the  scaly  back  that  slumbers,  still 
Unconscious  of  his  foot,  yet  not  for  ruth, 
But  numb'd  to  dulness  by  the  fairy  skill 
Of  that  sweet  music  (all  more  wild  and  shrill 
For  intense  fear)  that  charm'd  him  as  he  lay — 
Meanwhile  the  lover  nerves  his  desperate  will, 
Held  some  short  throbs  by  natural  dismay, 
Then  down,  down  the  serpent-track  begins  his  darksome  way. 


Now  dimly  seen — now  toiling  out  of  sight, 
Eclipsed  and  cover'd  by  the  envious  wall ; 
Now  fair  and  spangled  in  the  sudden  light. 
And  clinging  with  wide  arms  for  fear  of  fall ; 
Now  dark  and  shelter'd  by  a  kindly  pall 
Of  dusky  shadow  from  his  wakeful  foe ; 
Slowly  he  winds  adown — dimly  and  small, 
Watch'd  by  the  gentle  Swan  that  sings  below, 
Her  hope  increasing,  still,  the  larger  he  doth  grow. 

XXVI. 

But  nine  times  nine  the  serpent  folds  embrace 
The  marble  walls  about — which  he  must  tread 
Before  his  anxious  foot  may  touch  the  base  : 
Long  is  the  dreary  path,  and  must  be  sped ! 
But  Love,  that  holds  the  mastery  of  dread, 
Braces  his  spirit,  and  with  constant  toil 
He  wins  his  way,  and  now,  with  arms  outspread, 
Impatient  plunges  from  the  last  long  coil : 
So  may  all  gentle  Love  ungentle  Malice  foil. 


THE  TWO  SWANS.  223 


XXVII. 


The  song  is  hush'd,  the  charm  is  all  complete, 
And  two  fair  Swans  are  swimming  on  the  lake  : 
But  scarce  their  tender  bills  have  time  to  meet, 
When  fiercely  drops  adown  that  cruel  snake — 
His  steely  scales  a  fearful  rustling  make, 
Like  autumn  leaves  that  tremble  and  foretell 
The  sable  storm  ; — the  plumy  lovers  quake — 
And  feel  the  troubled  waters  pant  and  swell, 
Heaved  by  the  giant  bulk  of  their  pursuer  fell. 


XXVIII. 


His  jaws,  wide  yawning  like  the  gates  of  Death, 
His  horrible  pursuit — his  red  eyes  glare 
The  waters  into  blood — his  eager  breath 
Grows  hot  upon  their^plumes :  now,  minstrel  fair  ! 
She  drops  her  ring  into  the  waves,  and  there 
It  widens  all  around,  a  fairy  ring 
Wrought  of  the  silver  light — the  fearful  pair 
Swim  in  the  very  midst,  and  pant  and  cling 
The  closer  for  their  fears,  and  tremble  wing  to  wing. 


XXIX. 


Bending  their  course  over  the  pale  grey  lake, 
Against  the  pallid  East,  wherein  light  play'd 
In  tender  flushes,  still  the  baffled  snake 
Circled  them  round  continually,  and  bay'd 
Hoarsely  and  loud,  forbidden  to  invade 
The  sanctuary  ring — his  sable  mail 
RoU'd  darkly  through  the  flood,  and  writhed  and  made 
A  shining  track  over  the  waters  pale, 
Lash'd  into  boiling  foam  by  his  enormous  tail. 


224  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


XXX. 


And  so  they  sail'd  into  the  distance  dim, 
Into  the  very  distance — small  and  white, 
Like  snowy  blossoms  of  the  spring  that  swim 
Over  the  brooklets — follow 'd  by  the  spite 
Of  that  huge  Serpent,  that  with  wild  affright 
Worried  them  on  their  course,  and  sore  annoy 
Till  on  the  grassy  marge  I  saw  them  light, 
And  change,  anon,  a  gentle  girl  and  boy, 
Lock'd  in  embrace  of  sweet  unutterable  joy  ! 


XXXI. 


Then  came  the  Morn,  and  with  her  pearly  showers 
-  Wept  on  them,  like  a  mother,  in  whose  eyes 

Tears  are  no  grief;   and  from  his  rosy  bowers 

The  Oriental  sun  began  to  rise. 

Chasing  the  darksome  shadows  from  the  skies  ; 

Wherewith  that  sable  Serpent  far  away 

Fled,  like  a  part  of  night — delicious  sighs 

From  waking  blossoms  purified  the  day. 
And  little  birds  were  sweetly  singing  from  each  spray. 


ODE  ON  A  DISTANT  PROSPECT  OF  CLAPHAM  ACADEMY.  225 


ODE 


ON  A  DISTANT  PROSPECT  OF  CLAPHAM  ACADEMY.* 


Ah  me  !  those  old  familiar  bounds  ! 
That  classic  house,  those  classic  grounds 

My  pensive  thought  recalls  ! 
What  tender  urchins  now  confine, 
What  little  captives  now  repine. 

Within  yon  irksome  walls ! 

Ay,  that 's  the  very  house  !  I  know 
Its  ugly  windows,  ten  a-row  ! 

Its  chimneys  in  the  rear  ; 
And  there  's  the  iron  rod  so  high, 
That  drew  the  thunder  from  the  sky 

And  turn'd  our  table-beer ! 

There  I  was  birch'd  !  there  I  was  bred  ! 
There  like  a  little  Adam  fed 

From  Learning's  woeful  tree  ! 
The  weary  tasks  I  used  to  con  ! — 
The  hopeless  leaves  I  wept  upon  ! — 

Most  fruitless  leaves  to  me  ! — 

*  No  connexion  with  any  other  Ode. 
11* 


226  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


The  summon'd  class  ! — the  awful  bow  ! — 
I  wonder  who  is  master  now 

And  wholesome  anguish  sheds  ! 
How  many  ushers  now  employs, 
How  many  maids  to  see  the  boys 

Have  nothinsc  in  their  heads  ! 


'» 


And  Mrs.  S  *  *  *  ?— Doth  she  abet 
(Like  Pallas  in  the  parlor)  yet 

Some  favor'd  two  or  three, — 
The  little  Crichtons  of  the  hour, 
Her  muffin-medals  that  devour, 

And  swill  her  prize bohea  ? 

Ay,  there  's  the  play-ground  !  there  's  the  lime, 
Beneath  whose  shade  in  summer's  prime 

So  wildly  I  have  read  ! — 
Who  sits  there  now,  and  skims  the  cream 
Of  young  Romance,  and  weaves  a  dream 

Of  Love  and  Cottage-bread  ? 

Who  struts  the  Randall  of  the  walk  ? 
Who  models  tiny  heads  in  chalk  ? 

Who  scoops  the  light  canoe  ? 
What  early  genius  buds  apace  ? 
Where  's  Poynter  ?  Harris  ?  Bowers  ?  Chase  ? 

Hal  Baylis  ?  blithe  Carew  1 

Alack  !  they  're  gone — a  thousand  ways  ! 
And  some  are  serving  in  "  the  Greys," 

And  some  have  perished  young  ! — 
Jack  Harris  weds  his  second  wife  ; 
Hal  Baylis  drives  the  wane  of  life  : 

And  blithe  Carew — is  hung ! 


ODE  ON  A  DISTANT  PROSPECT  OF  CLAPHAM  ACADEMY.  227 

Grave  Bowers  teaches  ABC 
To  savages  at  Owhyee  ; 

Poor  Chase  is  with  the  worms ! — 
All,  all  are  gone — the  olden  breed ! — 
New  crops  of  mushroom  boys  succeed, 

"  And  push  us  from  our  forms  /" 

Lo  !  where  they  scramble  forth,  and  shout, 
And  leap,  and  skip,  and  mob  about, 

At  play  where  we  have  play'd  ! — 
Some  hop,  some  run  (some  fall),  some  twine 
Their  crony  arms ;  some  in  the  shine, 

And  some  are  in  the  shade ! 

Lo  there  what  mix'd  conditions  run 
The  orphan  lad  ;  the  widow's  son  ; 

And  Fortune's  favor'd  care — 
The  wealthy  born,  for  whom  she  hath 
Mac-Adamised  the  future  path — 

The  Nabob's  pamper'd  heir ! 

Some  brightly  starr'd — some  evil  born, — 

For  honor  some,  and  some  for  scorn, —  '  I 

For  fair  or  foul  renown ! 
Good,  bad,  indiff'rent — none  may  lack  ! 
Look,  here  's  a  White,  and  there  's  a  Black  ! 

And  there's  a  Creole  brown  ! 

Some  laugh  and  sing,  some  mope  and  weep, 
And  wish  their  frugal  sires  would  keep 

Their  only  sons  at  home  ; — 
Some  tease  the  future  tense,  and  plan 
The  full-grown  doings  of  the  man, 

And  pant  for  years  to  come  ! 


22S  HOOD'S  POEMS. 


A  foolish  wish  !     There  's  one  at  hoop  ; 
And  four  a.t  Jives  /  and  five  who  stoop 

The  marble  taw  to  speed ! 
And  one  that  curvets  in  and  out, 
Reining  his  fellow  Cob  about, — 

Would  I  were  in  his  steed  f 

Yet  he  would  gladly  halt  and  drop 
That  boyish  harness  off,  to  swop 
■    With  this  world's  heavy  van — 
To  toil,  to  tug.     O  little  fool ! 
While  thou  canst  be  a  horse  at  school 
To  wish  to  be  a  man  ! 

Perchance  thou  deem'st  it  were  a  thing 
To  wear  a  crown, — to  be  a  king  ! 

And  sleep  on  regal  down  ! 
Alas  !  thou  know'st  not  kingly  cares  j 
Far  happier  is  thy  head  that  wears 

That  hat  without  a  crown  ! 

And  dost  thou  think  that  years  acquire 
New  added  joys  ?     Dost  think  thy  sire 

More  happy  than  his  son  ? 
That  manhood's  mirth  ? — Oh,  go  thy  ways 
To  Drury-lane,  when piays, 

And  see  how  forced  our  fun  ! 

Thy  taws  are  brave ! — thy  tops  are  rare  ! — 
Our  tops  are  spun  with  coils  of  care 

Our  dumps  are  no  delight ! — 
The  Elgin  marbles  are  but  tame, 
And  'tis  at  best  a  sorry  game 

To  fly  the  Muse's  kite  ! 


ODE  ON  A  DISTANT  PROSPECT  OF  CLAPHAM  ACADEMY.  229 

Our  hearts  are  dough,  our  heels  are  lead, 
Our  topmost  joys  fell  dull  and  dead 

Like  balls  with  no  rebound ! 
And  often  with  a  feded  eye 
We  look  behind,  and  send  a  sigh 

Towards  that  merry  ground  ! 

Then  be  contented.     Thou  hast  got 
The  most  of  heaven  in  thy  young  lot : 

There  's  sky-blue  in  thy  cup  ! 
Thou'lt  find  thy  Manhood  all  too  fast — 
Soon  come,  soon  gone !  and  Age  at  last 

A  sorry  hr caking  up  ! 


THE    END. 


WILEY   &   PUTNAM'S 

LIBRARY  OF  AMERICAN  BOOKS 


No.  I. 
JOURNAL  OF   AN    AFRICAN    CRUISER. 

J ouriiiil  cl'  an  African  Cruiser.     Edited  by  Nathaniel    Hawthorne.      1vol., 

beautifully  printed,  .00  cents. 

I 
"  This  Journal  is  freshly  and  cleverly  written,  and  touches  on  a  scene 
little  hackneyed  by    journalists   or  travellers,     tie   writes   unaflTectedly  on 
most  subjects  and  often  with  great  animation.'  — London  Examiner. 

"  This  is  an  unpretending,  lively,  little  volume.  The  Journal  adds  some- 
thing tr>  our  [previous  knowledge,  and  that,  in  an  amusing  manner."— Z,o>i- 
don  Jitlas. 

"  The  svil)i.?ct  has  the  advantage  of  novelty ;  as,  although  an  extensive 
commerce  is  carried  on  along  the  coast  by  British  merchants,  the  captains 
thev  employ  are  not  exactly  of  a  literary  turn  ;  neither  do  the  officers  of  our 
royal  navy  appear  anxious  to  give  the  public  the  result  of  their  experience 
— weiglied  down,  perha|)S,  by  tiie  pestiferous  climate  and  the  arduous  char- 
acter of  their  laliors;  whilst  the  dreaded  pestilence  efiectually  stops  the 
tourist  in  search  of  the  picturesque.  To  our  recollection,  the  last  dozen 
years  have  only  produced  three  books  touchiiig  upon  Western  .Africa;  that 
of  Holman,  the  blind  traveller,  who  called  at  Sierra  Leone  and  Cape  Coast 
Castle,  but  of  course  saw  nothing;  Ranken's  '  White  Man's  Grave,'  which 
was  confined  to  Sierra  Leone,  and  which  preferred  the  attractions  of  literary 
effect  to  solid  accuracy;  with  Dr.  Madden's  semi-official  reports,  which 
were  obnoxious  to  the  same  remark  with  a  bias  superadded.  Hence,  the 
'Journal  of  an  African  Cruiser'  is  not  only  fresh  in  it.s  subject,  but  inform- 
ing in  its  matter,  especially  in  relation  to  the  experiment  of  Liberia.  It 
has  the  further  advantage  of  giving  Tis  an  American  view  of  the  slave  trad« 
and  the  Ni.-gro  character,  without  the  prejudices  of  the  southern  planter,  or 
the  fanaticism  of  the  abolitionist." — London  Spectator. 

"  As  pleasant  and  intelligent  a  specimen  of  American  Literature  written 
m  a  candi'l,  observant,  and  gentlemanly  spirit,  as  has  appeared  since  first 
the  Literary  (inzette  welcomed  Washington  Irving  to  the  British  Shore." 
—London  Lit.  Gaz.  July  19,  1S15. 

"  A  very  entertaining  volume,  a  worthy  leader  of  the  series  of  American 
BiMki." —  Smith's    Weekly   Volume. 


WILEY  AND  PUTNAM'S  ADVERTISEMENT 


"  We  pronnu ace  if,  a  work  of  uncommon  interest  and  merit." — Rover. 

"  This  is  the  titie  u  '  book  just  issued  by  Wiley  &  Putnam,  as  No.  1  Df 
tlieir  proposed  Libkari  of  American-  IJooks,  a  series  intended  to  em- 
brace original  works  of  ii-c-rit  and  interest,  from  the  pens  of  American 
authors.  The  design  can  scarcely  fail  to  be  successful.  We  have  a  firm 
faith  that  books  well  worth  reading,— as  well  worth  it  as  English  books  of 
the  sa:ne  class, — can  be  produced  in  this  country;  and  such  books,  and 
such  only,  we  presume  Messrs.  Wiley  &  Putnam  intend  to  publish  in  their 
seiiea.  This  first  number  is  well  worthy  of  its  place.  It  is  the  journal  of 
an  ofiicer  on  board  an  American  cruiser  on  the  coast  of  Africa, — and  relates 
to  a  fiL'ld  hitherto  almost  entirely  unnoticed  by  travelling  authors.  It  is 
written  in  a  plain,  straightforward,  unambitious  style,  and  evinces  a  very 
keen  talent  for  observation,  and  sound  judgment  and  enlightened  discrimi- 
nation. The  book  is  edited  by  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  one  of  the  most 
gifted  writers  in  this  country,  whose  works,  we  trust,  will  find  a  place  in 
this  series.  The  volume  is  very  handsomely  printed,  and  sold  at  fifty 
cents." — JVetv  York  Courier. 

"  This  is  a  pleasantly  written  Journal  of  a  cruise  to  the  western  coast  of 
Africa,  and  embodies  a  good  amount  of  valuable  information.  The  author 
spent  some  time  at  Liberia,  and  gives  quite  a  flattering  account  of  the  colo- 
ny. We  like  the  spirit  of  the  work,  and  especially  admire  the  simplicity 
and  grace  of  its  style." — JST.  Y.  Evangelist. 

'      No.    11. 
POE'S   TALES. 

Tales.     By  Edgar  A.  Poe.     1  vol.,  beautifully  printed  in  large  clear  type, 

on  fine  paper,  50  cents. 

This  collection  includes  the  most  characteristic  of  the  peculiar  series 
of  Tales  written  by  Mr.  Poe.  Among  others  will  be  found  "  The  Murders 
of  the  Rue  Morgue,"  "  The  Purloined  Letter,"  "  Marie  Roget,"  "  The 
House  of  Usher,"  "  The  Black  Cat,"  "  The  Gold  Bug,"  "  The  Descent 
into  the  Maelstrom,"  "  The  Premature  Burial,"  "  Mesmeric  Revelations," 
&c.,  &c. 

"  Most  characteristic  tales  and  stories." — Boston  Courier 

"  These  effusions  are  well  known,  and  have  been  well  appreciated.  Mr. 
Foe's  singular  and  powerful  style  of  prose  writing,  has  a  charm  which 
ought  to  be  enjoyed  more  than  once." — U.  S.  Gazette. 

"  Mr.  Poe's  tales  are  written  with  much  power,  while  all  possess  deep 
iaterest." — Phila.  Inquirer. 

"  There  are  many  writers  in  this  country  whose  articles  only  see  the 
light  in  the  pages  of  a  two  or  three  dollar  magazine,  who  are  at  least  equal 
to  some  foreign  authors  whose  works  are  reprinted  here  in  the  cheap  and 
nasty  style  by  the  cart-load.  The  consequence  is  that  our  own  authors  are 
ocarcely  heard  of,  while  Mrs.  Gore  and  Mary  Howitt,  Lover,  Lever,  &.C., 
tc  ,  are   lauded  and  read  the  country  over.     This  is  all  wrong,  and  w« 


WILLY  &.  PUTNAM'S  ADVERTISEMENT.  \h 


pious  woman,  such  as  we  have  known  and  loved.  Such  books  make  u« 
familiar  with  the  past,  not  merely  cognizant  of  it.  There  is  the  same  dif- 
ference between  them  and  statelier  records,  as  between  Macready's  Corio- 
lanus  and  Placide's  Grandfather  Whitehead. 

"  Another  capital  feature  in  this  series  of  books,  is  the  bringing  out  of 
Hazlitt's  writings  in  a  style  such  as  their  merits  deserve.  William  Hazlitt 
possessed  one  of  the  acutest  minds  of  his  day.  He  lived  upon  literature 
and  art.  He  was  one  of  those  men  who  seem  born  to  make  others  appre- 
ciate genius.  His  perceptions  were  singularly  keen  and  observant,  and  his 
p<iwers  of  reflection  of  a  high  order.  In  many  respects  he  is  an  excellent 
guide  to  truth,  setting  an  example  by  his  vigorous  independence  of  thought, 
his  earnestness  of  sympathy,  and  refined  definitions  of  artistic  excellence 
and  personal  character.  At  the  same  time  he  was  a  man  of  strong  preju- 
dices and  perverted  feelings.  He  is  not  to  be  implicitly  followed,  but  to  be 
read  with  constant  discrimination.  In  his  '  Table-Talk,'  which  forms  two 
numbers  of  the  '  Library,'  there  are  innumerable  attractive  reminiscences 
of  books  and  men,  and  suggestions  of  rare  value  both  for  the  writer,  the 
artist,  and  the  man  who  desires  to  improve  the  advantages  which  nature 
bestows.  We  know  of  few  writers  who,  with  all  his  defects,  are  so  alive 
as  Hazlitt.  He  had  that  mental  activity  which  is  contagious,  and  has  done 
no  little  good  by  setting  minds  of  more  equanimity  upon  the  track  of  pro- 
gress. It  appears  this  collection  of  essays  is  to  be  followed  by  his  other 
works.  They  will  be  a  valuable  accession  to  the  current  literature  of  the 
day. 

"  It  is  obvious  from  this  hasty  survey,  that  there  are  two  particulars  in 
which  these  books  deserve  the  name  of  '  Choice  Literature  ,■' &nd  which 
honorably  distinguish  them  from  the  mass  of  reprints  that  has  deluged  the 
land  with  cheap  reading.  They  contain  ideas,  and  they  have  a  style.  The 
former  will  furnish  the  hungry  mind,  and  the  latter  will  refine  the  crude 
taste,  so  that  an  actual  benefit,  independent  of  the  diversion  attending  s'lch 
reading,  will  certainly  accrue  We  have  dwelt  at  unusual  length  upon  this 
series  of  books,  because  we  regard  their  appearance  and  popularity  as  tho 
best  sign  of  the  times,  as  far  as  literature  is  concerned,  which  we  can  now 
discern.  The  apathy  of  our  publishers,  in  regard  to  all  compositions  of- 
fered them,  e.xcept  fiction,  and  that  of  the  most  vapid  kind  ;  the  apparent 
juccess  of  the  cheap  system,  and  the  '  angels'  visits '  of  works  of  real  merit, 
seemed  to  indicate  a  fatal  lapse  of  wholesome  taste. 

'« The  '  Library  of  Choice  Literature,'  was  started  on  a  different  princi- 
ple. It  appealed  to  good  sense  and  the  love  of  beauty,  rather  than  to  a  mor- 
bid appetite  for  excitement.  We  therefore  regard  the  favorable  reception 
it  has  met  with,  as  evidence  that  the  public  in  the  end,  will,  after  trying  all 
things,  hold  fast  that  which  is  good.  We  shall  look  for  the  American  se- 
ries, advertisi'd  by  the  publishers,  with  great  interest  Wliile  we  have 
criticism  like  that  which  occasionally  redeems  our  periodical  literature, 
8uch  a  prose  poet  as  Hawthorne,  such  a  speculative  essayist  as  Emer.'^on, 
iuch  a  brilliant  tale  writer  as  Willis,  to  say  nothing  of  adepts  in  other  de- 
pa.-taicnts,  surely  there  is  no  difficulty  in  making  a  very  respectable  Ataeri- 
can  Library  of  Choice  Literature." — A'.  Y.  Evening  Pott. 


WILEY  &  PUTNAM'S  ADVERTISEMEN1 


EOTHEN. 

EotiiSn  ;  OB  Traces  of  Travel   brought    home  from    the  E4.8T 

Price  50   cents. 

"  One  of  the  most  delightful  and  brilliant  works,  ever  published — inde- 
peiidoiit  of  its  prepossessing  externals,  a  convenient  book  torm,  good  paper 
and  legible  type." — JV.    V.  Mirror. 

"  An  agreeable  and  instructive  work."-  Albion. 

"  We  have  read  this  work  with  great  pleasure,  for  it  is  indeed  lively  and 
?pnrkling  throughout;  it  will  not  only  please  the  careless  skimmer  of  light 
literature,  but  the  ripe  scholar  77iust  be  delighted  with  it." — Richmond 
Tiynes. 

"This  IS  one  of  the  cleverest  books  of  travels  ever  written.'" — JV.  Y.  Post 

"  Eothen  is  one  of  the  most  attractive  books  of  travels  that  have  been 
given  to  the  public,  and  has  been  received  in  England  with  iiigh  commen- 
dations."— JVewark  Advertiser. 

II. 

XHE   AMBER    WITCH. 

Mary  Schweidler,  the  Amber  Witch,  the  most  interesting  trial  for 
Witchcraft  ever  known,  printed  from  an  imperfect  manuscript  by  her 
father,  Abraham  Schweidler,  the  pastor  of  Coserow,  in  the  island  of 
Usedom.  Edited  by  W.  Meinhold,  Doctor  of  Theology,  Pastor,  &c., 
translated  from  the  German  by  Lady  Duff  Gordon.     Price  37A  cents. 

The  London  Quarterly  Review  describes  this  as  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  productions  of  the  day.  It  seems  that  a  certain  sect  of  German 
Philosophers  (the  school  of  Tubingen)  had  declared  themselves  such  adepts 
of  criticism  that  they  could  tell  the  authenticity  of  everything  from  the 
style.  This  work  was  written  by  Dr.  Meinhold,  when  one  of  their  students ; 
and  he  subsequently  published  it  to  test  their  theory.  It  was  published  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  in  its  present  form.  All  Germany  was  non-plussed.  It 
was  finally  determined  by  the  critics  (especially  the  infallible  critics  of 
Tubingen)  that  it  was  truth  and  reality.  Finally  Dr.  Meinhold,  in  a  German 
paper,  acknowledged  himself  the  author,  and  that  it  was  purely  fictitious. 
The  German  critics,  however,  will  hardly  believe  him  on  his  word. 

"  The  work  is  written,  say  the  reviewers,  with  admirable  skill,  so  much 
Ko  that  it  rivals  the  Robinson  Crusoe  of  Df  Foe  This  is  saying  enough  "— 
Cinrin.    Chron. 

III. 

UNDINE  AND   SINTRAM. 

Undine,  trans" ated  from  the   German   of  La  Motte  Fouq'i6,   by   Rev 
Thomas  Tracy,  with  Sintram  and  his  Companions.     Price  50  cents. 


WILEY  &  PUTNAM'S  ADVERTISEMENT. 


"Undine  is  a  universal  favorite  ;  one  of  the  most  simply  beautiful  and  per- 
fectly constructed  stories  in  the  whole  German  Literature.  The  sentiment 
of  the  story  is  as  pure  and  unbroken  as  the  fountains  so  often  introduced, 
which  in  the  midst  of  perpetual  change  and  action  are  always  he  same. 
The  whole  atmosphere  of  the  piece  is  vapory  and  gauzelike.  It  is  one  cf 
those  conception-?  of  genius  which,  once  taken  into  the  mind,  feed  it  for  ever. 
If  there  ire  any  of  our  readers  who  have  not  yet  learat  to  value  Undine,  they 
have  a  new  enjoyment  in  store  for  themselves.  The  present  translation  is 
a  copyright  one,  that  of  Rev.  Thomas  Tracy,  printed  now  for  the  fifth  time, 
and  with  the  last  corrections  of  the  translator.  Sintram,  the  tale  which 
accompanies  Undine,  is  here  published,  for  the  first  time,  in  this  country 
It  introduces  us  into  the  midst  of  the  old  northern  chivalry,  at  its  first 
meeting  with  the  Christianity  of  the  south,  before  the  former  had  yielded  its 
early  barbarity  and  fierceness.  The  contrast  between  the  cloister  and  the 
hunting  field  and  wassail  chamber  is  powerfully  presented  ;  the  dark  powers 
of  the  air  still  hover  over  the  land,  but  within  the  breast  there  is  a  great 
conflict  between  the  light  and  darkness,  the  peace  and  war.  In  Sintram 
this  struggle  is  introduced.  It  is  the  warfare  which  goes  on  in  the  heart  of 
every  man  who  is  assailed  by  temptation  and  preserved  by  faith." — Dem. 
Review. 

IV. 

IMAGINATION    AND    FANCY. 

Imagination  and  Fancy  ;  or  selections  from  the  English  poets,  illustrative 
of  those  requisites  of  their  art;  with  markings  of  the  best  passages,  critical 
notices  of  the  writers,  and  an  Essay  in  answer  to  the  question,  "  What  is 
Puctry  "  by  Leigh  Hunt.     Price  00  cents. 

"Mr.  Leigh  Hunt's  work  is  one  of  tliose  unmistakable  gems  about  which 
no  two  peo[)le  difl'cr  widely  ;  accordingly,  the  whole  press  has  pronounced 
but  one  verdict,  and  that  verdict  favorable.  Yet  friends  and  foes  unite  in 
praising  '  Imagination  and  Fancy.'  The  reason  is  simple, — the  excellence 
of  the  book  is  genuine,  evident,  distorted  by  no  systematic  bias,  injured  by 
no  idiosyncrasy.  It  is  really  and  truly  an  exquisite  selection  of  lovely  fias- 
sages,  accompanied  with  critical  notices  of  unusual  worth." — Westminstfr 
Revieto. 

"We  might  extract  numberless  gems  of  thought  and  feeling  from  this 
volume,  if  our  limits  would  permit.  We  can  cordially  recommend  it  to  the 
lovers  of  poetry,  as  a  volume  wherein  they  may  have  a  pie, -.sant  colloquy 
with  the  genial  spirit  of  Leigh  Hunt,  on  some  of  the  noblest  and  liiiest 
specimens  of  imagination  and  fancy  which  literature  contains." — UrahmrCi 
Magazine. 

V. 

DIARY    OF    LADY    WILLOUGHBY. 

Bo  much  of  tlie  Diary  of  Lady  Willoughby  a.s  relates  to  her   Domestic  His- 
*xry,  and  to  the  Eventful  period  of  the  reign  of  Charles  I.      Price  25  cte. 

"'Lady  Willou^hby's  Diary'  h;i3  doubtless,  before  tin's,  found  its  V»Tiy 
i  %  thousanl  hands  and  hearts.     It  is  a  sort  of  'sacra  privata,''  a  revela 


vi  WILEY  &  PUTNAiVrS  ADVERTISEMENT 

tion  of  a  Woman's  Heart  as  we  conceive  of  it,  oftener  than  we  find  it,  but 
§till  a  revelation  that  all  will  be  happy  to  believe  in.  It  is  hard  to  teli 
which  most  to  admire,  the  skill  of  the  author  in  sustaining  so  successfully 
the  vraisemblance  at  which  he  aimed,  or  his  truth  to  nature,  the  same  in 
the  seventeenth  as  the  nineteenth  century." — JV.  Y.  Post. 

"  This  book  is  more  like  lifting  the  lid  of  the  lily's  heart,  and  seeing  how 
the  perfume  is  distilled,  than  anything  less  poetical  that  we  can  think  of 
It  is  so  far  within  the  beginnings  of  common  observation — so  exquisitely 
delicate  and  subtle — so  truthful  withal,  and  such  a  picture  of  nature's  lady- 
likeness — that,  to  some  appreciation,  it  would  have  been  a  pity  if  angels 
alone  had  read  such  a  heart-book,  iia  the  one  turning  ovar  of  its  leaves  of 
life." — V.  Y.  Mirror. 

"  This  is  a  charming  little  work.  The  simple  but  antique  style  of  lan- 
guage in  which  it  is  clothed,  together  with  much  that  is  beautiful  in 
thought  and  expression,  and  an  exquisitely  drawn  picture  of  domestic  life 
among  those  of  rank  and  consequence  in  olden  time,  stamps  the  work  with 
a  novelty  and  interest  which  is  quite  rare." — Imerican  Republican. 

"  This  is  a  delightful  book.     It  is  full  of  sweet  domestic  pictures,  a  mix 
ture  of  enjoyment  and  trial,  a  development  of  the  character  of  an  affection- 
ate, trusting  wife  and  mother.     The  delineation  of  true  piety,  the  believing, 
prayerful  and  submissive  spirit,  mingled  in  these  pages,  must  have  come 
from  personal  experience." — JST.  Y.  Evangelist. 

"  Tliis  is  a  very  pleasing  and  interesting  little  book,  as  a  picture,  clear  in 
tone,  and  in  good  keeping. — We  cordially  recommend  the  work." — JV.  Y. 
Tribune. 

"  We  briefly  noticed  tliis  daiightful  book  yesterday,  but  would  again  call 
attention  to  it,  as  it  is  full  of  excjuisite  pathos.  We  confess  it  took  us  by 
surprise,  and  mightily  disturbed  our  self-possession.  Every  parent  will 
appreciate  it" — Cincinnati  Herald. 

VI.  &  IX. 

HAZL-ITT'S    WORKS. 

Fable  Talk. — Opinions  on  Books,  Men  and  Things.  By  Wil,- 
Li.\M  Hazlitt.  First  American  Edition.  In  Two  Parts.  'Beauti- 
fully printed  in  large,  clear  type,  on  fine  paper — (forming  Nos.  6  and  9  of 
the  Library  of  Choice  Reading). — Price  each  S?^  cents. 

Contents. — Essay  1.  On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting.  2.  The  same  subject 
continued.  3.  On  the  Past  and  Future.  4.  On  People  with  one  Idea. 
5.  On  the  Ignorance  of  the  Learned.  '3.  Oa  Will-Making.  7.  On  a 
Landscape  of  Nicolas  Poussin.  8.  On  Going  a  Journey.  9.  Why  distant 
objects  please.  10.  On  Corporate  Bodies.  11.  On  the  Knowledge  of  Char- 
acter. 12.  On  the  Fear  of  Death.  13.  On  Application  to  Study.  .  14. 
On  the  Old  Age  of  Artists.  1-5.  On  Egotism.  16.  On  the  Regal  Char- 
acter. 

Contents. — Essay  17.  On  the  look  of  a  Gentleman.  IS.  On  Reading  Old 
Books.  19.  On  Personal  Character.  20.  On  Vulgarity  and  Affectation 
11.  On  Antiquity.  22.  Ad 'ice  to  a  School  Boy.  23.  The  Indian  Jugglers 
*■»    On  the  Prose  Style  of  Poets.     25.  On  the  Conversation  of  AuthorB 


WILEV  &  PUTNAM'S  ADVERTISEMENT  vii 

26.  The  same  subject  continued.  27.  My  First  Acquaintance  w  th  Por»ts. 
28.  Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen.  29.  Shyness  of  Scholars. 
30.  On  Old  English  Writers  and  Speakers. 

"  We  are  glad  to  see  that  this  capital  series  continues  tc  meet  with  great 
favor.  It  is  the  best  selection  of  popular  reading  which  we  have  yet  seen 
issued  in  this  country.  -  We  cannot  but  hope  that  this  Sixth  number  is  but 
the  beginning  of  a  complete  or  nearly  complete  republication  cf  Hazlitt  a 
Miscellanies.  In  our  judgment,  he  was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  ar.,d 
attractive  Prose  writers,  and  decidedly  the  best  Critic  which  England  haa 
produced  in  the  Nineteenth  Century.  No  man  ever  had  a  more  exquisite 
and  profound  feeling  of  all  the  beauties  of  a  great  author  than  Hazlitt 
i^oleridge  imagined  more  splendidly  for  the  author  who  pleased  him,  often- 
times creating  a  beauty  for  his  Idol  which  no  other  vision  less  keen  than  his 
own  Could  discern.  Charles  Lamb  dissected  an  occasional  vein  of  Fancy  or 
Feeling  with  more  dexterous  Tact  Wilson  romanced  and  hyperbolized 
about  a  great  writer  with  a  more  gushing  and  copious  Eloquence.  Leigh 
Hunt — the  Critic  of  details — sometimes  detected  with  more  unerring  accu- 
racy, t!ie  music  of  a  cadence,  or  the  gleam  of  a  metaphor.  JcfTrey  summed 
up  the  whole  case  of  an  author's  defects  and  merits  with  a  more  lawyer-like 
completeness  and  precision.  And  Macaulay  certainly  excels  Hazlitt,  as  he 
excels  all  his  critical  compeers,  in  that  marvellous  power  of  analysis 
and  generalization,  which  always  enables  him  to  render  a  cogent  and  con- 
clusive reason  for  the  whole  literary  faith  that  is  in  him.  But  as  a  critical 
help  toward  a  just  appreciation  of  a  great  masterwork,  Hazlitt  is  the  best 
of  them  all.  His  taste  was  just  as  sensitive  and  fastidious  as  it  could  be 
without  losing  its  manliness  and  health.  His  criticisms,  in  fact,  want 
nothing  but  a  severe  logic.  Admirably  as  he  ahvays  applies  the  Canons  of 
a  just  taste,  he  is  not  successful,  comparatively,  when  he  attempts  to  expound 
the  principles  in  which  they  are  founded.  Some  great  Lawyers  are  called 
Case  Lawyers,  because  they  apply  precedents  with  great  felicity,  while 
they  are  incapable  of  seizing,  in  a  brOad  and  strong  grasp,  the  Philosophy 
of  Legislation.  In  this  sense,  Hazlitt  was  a  Case  Critic.  He  saw  and  felt 
with  admirable  distinctness,  the  Critical  truth  in  the  Case  befcre  him,  but 
he  seemed  to  lack  the  power  or  habit  requisite  to  form  a  Philosophy  of 
Criticism.  There  is  no  system  in  his  literary  and  artistic  judgments.  This 
is  the  more  remarkable,  because,  in  the  domain  of  m'jtaphysical  speculation, 
he  was  certainly  a  very  bold,  acute,  and  vigorous  thinker.  Hazlitt's  Miscel- 
laneous Essays  are  certainly  most  pleasant  and  suggestive  reading  ;  yet  to 
us,  they  have  always  seemed  inferior  to  his  Criticisms.  They  often  dis- 
play, indeed,  great  shrewdness  of  observation  and  an  almost  unparalleled 
vividness  of  Fancy  ;  but  sometimes  they  wander  far  out  of  sight  both  of 
truth  and  fact.  On  the  whole,  however,  the  writings  of  Hazlitt  are  emi 
nently  in  tiicir  place  in  tliis  '  Library  of  Choice  Reading,'  and  we  bopa 
the. Publishers  will  soon  give  us  more  of  them." — The  jYew    World 

"The  writings  of  William  Hazlitt  display  much  originality  and  geniua, 
united  with  grea'.  critical  acuteness  an3  brilliancy  of  fancy." — Encyclopedia 
Britannica. 

"The  gieat  merits  of  Hazlitt  as  a  writer  are  a  force  and  ingenuity  of  illustra 
tion,  strength,  terseness  and  vivacity.  .  .  But  his  chief  title  to  fame  is  deriv 
i«d  Irom  h'li  Essays  on  objects  of  Taste  and  Literature,  which  are  deservedly 
popular.  In  a  number  of  fine  passages,  which  one  would  read  not  only 
once,  but  again  and  again,  we  hardly  know  in  the  whole  circle  of  English 
Literature  any  \\  "ter  who  can  match  Hazlitt." — Penny  Cyclopedia. 


viii  WILEY  &  PUTNAM'S  ADVERTISEMENT. 

"  His  criticisms,  while  they  extend  our  insight  into  the  causes  of  poetical 
rxceller.ce,  teach  us,  at  the  same  time,  more  keenly  to  enjoy  and  mora 
ftmlly  to  revere  it." — Edinburgh  Review. 

"A  man  of  decided  genius,  and  one  of  the  most  remarkable  writers  of  the 
age  was  William  Hazlitt,  whose  bold  and  vigorous  tone  of  thinking,  and 
acule  criticisms  on  Poetry,  the  Drama  and  Fine  Arts,  will  ever  find  a  host  of 
admirers  His  style  is  sparkling,  pungent  and  picturesque." — Chaynbers 
English  Literature. 

"  A  highly  original  thinker  and  writer— his  '  Table-Talk  '  possesses  very 
considerable  merit." — British  Cyclopedia. 

"  Hazlitt's  Works  do  credit  to  his  abilities." — Literary  Gazette. 

"  He  displays  great  fertility  and  acute  powers  of  mind ;  and  his  style  is 
sparkling  and  elegant." — Blake. 

"  Hazlitt  never  wrote  one  dull  nor  one  frigid  line.  If  we  were  called 
upon  to  point  out  the  Critic  and  Essayist  whose  impress  is  stamped  the 
deepest  and  most  shnrply  upon  the  growing  mind  of  young  England,  we 
should  certainly  name  the  eloquent  Hazlitt." — Tail's  Magazine. 

"  Each  Essay  is  a  pure  gathering  of  the  author's  own  mind,  and  not  filched 
from  the  \vorld  of  books,  in  which  thieving  is  so  common,  and  all  strike  out 
some  bold  and  original  thinking,  and  give  some  vigorous  truths  in  stern  and 
earnest  language.  They  are  written  with  infinite  spirit  and  thought.  There 
are  abundance  of  beauties  to  delight  all  lovers  of  nervous  English  prose,  let 
them  be  ever  so  fastidious." — Y'ew  Moiithly  Magazine. 

"  He  is  at  home  in  the  closet,  in  the  fresh  fields,  in  the  studies." — Liter 
ary  Gazette. 

"  Choice  reading  indeed  !  It  is  not  often  that  we  meet  with  a  book  so 
attractive.  We  are  not  sure  bat  that  we  should  have  read  all  the  morning 
in  this  book,  had  not  the  entrance  of  certain  very  ti'oublesome  characters, 
called  compositors,  broken  our  enjoyment  with  the  question — '  Any  more 
copy,  sir .''  As  long  as  Wiley  &  Putnam  will  publish  such  books,  the  pub- 
lic need  not  buy  the  half  legible  trash  of  the  day,  for  the  sake  of  getting 
cheap  books." — American  Traveller. 

"  These  Essays  comprise  many  of  the  best  things  that  Hazlitt  ever  said, 
and  this  is  high  praise;  enough,  at  least,  to  commend  the  book  to  all  who 
take  dtlight  in  such  reading  as  the  Essays  of  Elia,  or  Christopher  JS'orth, 
with  v\liom  he  is  a  kindred  spirit,  a  class  which  it  is  a  happiness  to  believe 
is  by  no  means  inconsiderable  in  jioint  of  numbers.  There  is  something 
parucularly  fascinating  about  these  dissertations.  Tlieir  easy,  intimate 
Btvle  wins  the  reader  into  a  true  feeling  of  sympathv  and  companionship 
with  the  writer."— wV.  Y  Post. 

VII. 

HEADLONG    HAUL    AND    NIGHTMARE    ABBEV. 

Headlong  Hall  ant>  Nightmare  Abbev,  by  Thomas  Lov    Peacock 

i'ncc  37f  cents. 

"  This  is  a  witty,  amusing  book." — JV.  F.  Tribune. 


WILEY  &  PUTNAM'S  ADYEllTISEMENT.  ix 


"  The  seventh  is  a  satirical  performance,  reflecting  the  spirit  and  form  ot 
the  age  with  great  ^kill  and  force,  entitled  Headlong  Hall,  with  a  seijuel. 
Nightmare  Abbey.  It  has  points  of  great  excellence  and  attraction,  and  la 
imbued  with  a  spiri;of  humor  which  well  sets  off  the  author's  opinions. 
If  the  reader  of  the  work  is  not  a  better  man  for  its  lessors,  it  will  be  his 
twn  fault." — ^V".  F  Evangelist. 

"  The.se  are  tales  which  may  be  read  over  a  dozen  times  and  will  bo  as 
fiasli  at  the  last  as  at  the  first  perusal.  New  points  of  vit.  humor,  and  sar- 
lasra  are  always  appearing." — London  JVews. 

"  Were  we  to  be  asked  our  private  opinion  as  to  who  is  the  wittiest  writer 
in  England,  we  should  say  the  author  of  Headlong  Hall.  Perhaps  no  man 
has  seen  the  follies  of  his' day  with  a  clearer  and  juster  eye  than  the  present 
author;  he  investigates,  and  then  reasons,  and  by  placing  the  fact  in  its 
simplest,  places  it  also  in  its  most  ridiculous  forms.  He  calls  things  by 
their  right  names;  and  in  this  age  of  high  sounding  words  and  iiappy 
epithets,"  this  little  process  has  a  most  curious  effect." — Land.  Lit.  Gaz. 

VIII. 

XHE   FRENCH    IN   ALGIERS. 

[.  The  Soldiers  of  the  Foreign  Legion.  II.  The  Prisoners  of  Abd-el-Kader. 
Translated  from  the  German  and  French  by  Lady  DltffGordox.  Price 
37^  cents. 

'  There  is  something  refreshing  in  reading  of  the  men  of  instinct,  such 
as  the  Bedouins." — JVew  York  Tribune. 

"  This  work  is  in  two  parts — the  first  by  a  Lieutenant  in  the  Oldcnberg 
service — the  second  by  a  Lieutenant  in  the  French  navy  ;  but  both  parts  are 
of  a  most  interesting  character;  and  are  worthy  of  the  place  which  they  hold 
in  the  '  Library  of  Choice  Reading.'  The  work  is  written  in  an  unpre- 
tending style,  and  contains  a  great  deal  of  curious  and  instructive  matter, 
which  to  us  at  least  is  entirely  new." — American  Citizen. 

"  The  main  interest  of  his  story  centres  upon  Abd-el-Kador ;  and  it  is 
curious  to  see  how  little  this  Frenchman's  portrait  from  life  of  the  famous 
Emir  corresponds  with  the  representations  of  him  given  by  the  European 
journals.  According  to  the  latter  Abd-el-Kader  is  a  formidable  chieftain, 
mdrrshalling  under  his  banner  numerous  and  warlike  tribes,  fired  with  the 
most  determined  spirit  of  fanaticism,  setting  at  defiance  the  military  power 
of  France,  and  meditating  even  the  expulsion  of  tlie  Moorish  Emperor  fiorn 
his  throne.  Mo:isicur  I'rancc,  on  the  contrary,  brings  him  before  us  a  mers 
free-booting  chief  of  a  few  hundreds,  rich  in  a  solitary  cannon  so  badly 
mounted  as  to  be  almost  useless,  and  with  great  ddmculty  keeping  his  vaga- 
bonds together  by  indiscriminate  plunder.  The  Abd-el-Kader  of  the  news- 
papers is  quite  a  romantic  hero  ;  but  the  Abd-el-Kader  of  this  book  is  a  very 
dilFcrent  personage." — JVew  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  A  book  made  uj)  from  the  actual  experience  of  a  soldier  and  sailor — 
presenting  a  very  vivid  account  of  the  French  dominion  in  Africa.  One  hall 
\»  the  contribution  of  a  Ge  mari  soldier  o*"  fortune,  who,  finding  himself  out 


WILEY  &  PU  rXAM'S  ADVERTISEMENT 


of  employment  in  Spain,  coir  es  over  to  encounter  the  deserts  and  Kabyle* 
and  Abd-el-Kader  in  the  Foreign  Legion.  His  incidents,  jottings  down,  and 
reflections  smeil  of  the  camp.  The  anecdotes  of  the  expeditions  and  skir- 
mishes throw  a  new  light  on  our  contemporary  meagre  newspaper  bulletins 
headed  Algeria.  We  are  quietly  put  in  possession  of  the  whole  system  of 
strategy — and  may  confidently  predict  something  more  enduring  in  the 
French  struggle  with  the  native  tribes  than  in  our  own  with  the  Seminoles. 
The  second  portion  of  the  book  gives  the  experience  of  M.  De  France,  an  officer 
of  the  navy,  who  was  one  day  noosed  on  the  sea-board,  and  carried  to  Abd- 
fil-Kader.  He  gives  an  interesting  account  of  the  great  chief  and  his  camp. 
Lady  DutF  Gordon,  the  accomplished  translator  and  editor  of  this  volume,  is, 
we  understand,  the  daughter  of  Sarah  Austen,  so  well  known  to  all  Englisn 
readers  of  German  Literature." — JVew  York  Mornin"-  JVews. 

"This  No.  (theSth)  of  the  '  Library  of  Choice  Reading,'  is  an  actual 
record  of  the  observations  of  two  highly  intelligent  young  men  upon  some 
very  interesting  scenes  in  which  they  were  themselves  sharers.  The  work 
contains  much  valuable  information,  and  is  written  throughout  in  a  style 
that  cannot  fail  to  attract  and  interest  all  classes  of  readers." — Jllbany  Re- 
ligious Spectator. 


X. 
THE  GESXA  ROMANORUM. 

Evenings  with  the  Old  Story  Tellers  :    Select  Moral  Tales  from  the  Gesta 
Romanorum      Price  37i  cents. 

Contents  :— The  Ungrateful  Man;  Joviiiian  and  the  Proud  Emperor ; 
The  King  and  the  Glutton  ;  Guide,  the  perfect  servant ;  The  Knight  and  the 
King  of  Hungary ;  The  Three  Black  Crows  ;  The  Three  Caskets  ;  The 
Angel  and  the  Hermit ;  Fulgentius  and  the  Wicked  Steward  :  The  Wicked 
Priest;  The  Emperor's  Daughter  ;  The  Emperor  Leo  and  the  Three  Images  ; 
The  Lay  of  the  Little  Bird  ;  The  Burdens  of  this  Life  ;  The  Suggestions  of 
the  Evil  One;  Cotonolapes,  the  Magician;  The  Garden  of  Aloaddin  ;  Sir 
Guide,  the  Crusader ;  The  Knight  and  the  Necromancer  ;  The  Clerk  and 
the  Image;  The  Demon  Knight  of  the  Vandal  Camp;  The  Seductions  of 
the  Evil  One  ;  The  Three  Maxims  ;  The  Trials  of  Eustace;  Queen  Semi- 
ramis;  Celestinus  and  the  Miller's  Horse;  The  Emperor  Conrad  and  the 
Count's  Son  ;  The  Knight  and  the  Three  Questions ;  Jonathan  and  the 
Three  Talismen. 

•'  Evenings  with  the  Old  Story  Tellers  will,  we  anticipate,  be  a  very  po- 
pular volume.  There  is  about  these  Tale  a  quiet  humor,  a  quaintncss  and 
ters-eness  oi  style,  which,  apart  from  the  sage  lessons  they  convey,  will 
Btrongiy  recommend  them."— English  Churchman. 

"  We  have  derived  a  great  deal  of  curious  information  from  the  perusal 
of  this  little  work— upon  which  gi-eat  care  and  labor  have  evidently  been 
bestowed,  and  we  promise  that  the  reader  will  find  himself  amply  reward- 
pJ." — Western  Luminary. 


WILEY  &  -  UTNAM'S  ADVERTISEMENT.  xi 

XI.  &  XII. 
THE  CRESCENX  AND  THE  CROSS: 

Or,  Romance  and  Reali  ies  of  Eastern  Travel.     By  Eliot  B.  G.  Warburton, 

Esq.     2  vols.,  beautifully  printed.    Price  50  cents  each. 

♦*  Eliot  Warburton,  who  is  known  to  be  the  author  of  those  brilliantly 
sparkling  papers,  the  '  Episodes  of  Eastern  Travel,'  which  lit  up  our  las' 
November.  His  book  (' The  Crescent  and  the  Cross')  must,  and  will  bt 
capital."— Fiirff  "  Eothen,"  page  179. 

"  This  is  an  account  of  a  tour  in  the  Levant,  including  Egypt,  Palestine, 
Syria,  Constantinople,  and  Greece.  The  Author  calls  his  work  '  Romance 
and  Realities  of  Eastern  Travel ;'  and,  to  say  the  truth,  the  Romance  is  so 
well  imagined,  and  the  Reality  so  well  told,  that  we  can  hardly  aft'ect  to  dis- 
tinguish the  one  from  the  other.  The  book  is  vastly  superior  to  the  com- 
mon run  of  narratives,  and  is,  indeed,  remarkable  for  the  coloring  power, 
and  the  play  of  fancy  with  which  its  descriptions  are  enlivened.  The 
writing  is  of  a  kind  that  indicates  abilities  likely  to  command  success  in  the 
higher  departments  of  literature.  Almost  every  page  teems  with  good  feel- 
ing ;  and  although  that  '  catholic-heartedness,'  for  which  the  Author  takes 
credit,  permits  him  to  view  Mahometan  doctrines  and  usages  with  a  little 
too  much  of  indifferentism,  yet,  arriving  in  Palestine,  he  willingly  becomes 
the  good  pilgrim,  and  at  once  gives  in  his  adherence  to  the  '  religion  of  the 
place'  with  all  the  zeal  of  a  pious  Christian  The  book,  independently  of 
its  value  as  an  original  narrative,  comprises  much  useful  and  interesting 
information." — Quarterly  Review. 

"  Nothing  but  the  already  overdone  top-ics  prevented  Mr.  Warburton's 
Eastern  sketches  from  rivalling  Eothen  in  variety:  in  the  mixture  of  story 
with  anecdote,  information  and  impression,  it  perhaps  surpasses  it.  Innu- 
merable passages  of  force,  vivacity,  or  humor,  are  to  be  found  in  the  vo- 
lumes."—  Spectator. 

"  This  delightful  work  is,  from  first  to  last,  a  splendid  panorama  of 
Eastern  Scenery,  in  the  full  blaze  of  its  magnificence.  The  crowning  merit 
of  the  book  is,  that  it  is  evidently  the  production  of  a  gentleman,  and  a  man 
of  the  world,  who  has  lived  in  the  best  society,  and  been  an  attentive  ob- 
server of  the  scenes  and  characters  which  have  passed  before  him  during 
his  restless  and  joyous  existence.  To  a  keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  he 
joins  a  power  of  sketching  and  grouping  which  are  happily  demonstrated." 
— Morniiif^  Po.it. 

"  Mr.  Warburton  has  fulfilled  the  promise  of  bis  title-page.  Tiie  '  Re- 
alities' of  «  Eastern  Travel'  are  described  with  a  vividness  which  invests 
them  with  deep  and  abiding  interest;  while  the  'Romantic'  adventures 
which  the  enterprising  tourist  met  with  in  his  course  are  narr.ited  with  a 
Bfiirit  which  shows  how  much  he  enjoyed  these  reliefs  from  the  ennui  of 
©very-day  life." — Globe. 

"  The  Author  has  been  careful  to  combine  with  his  own  observation  sach 
information  as  he  could  glean  from  other  sources  ;  and  his  volumes  contain 
t  compilation  )f  much  that  is  useful,  with  original  remarks  of  his  own  on 


xn  WILEY  &  PUTNAM'S  ADVERTISEMENT 


Oriental  life  and  manners.     He  possesses  poetic  feeling,  which  aasociatea 
easily  with  scenery  and  manners  " — Athenanun. 

"  Mr.  Warburton  sees  with  the  strong  clear  vision  with  which  Heaven 
nas  endowed  him,  but  with  this  there  are  always  blended  recollections  of 
the  past,  and  something— though  dashed  in  unconsciously— of  poetic  feeling. 
He  brings  to  his  work  of  observation  an  accomplished  mind,  and  well-trainod 
and  healthful  faculties.  We  are  proud  to  claim  him  as  a  countryman,  and 
are  content  that  his  book  shall  go  all  the  world  over,  that  other  countries 
may  derive  a  just  impression  of  our  national  character." — Britannia. 

"  Mr.  Warburton's  book  is  very  lively,  and  is  most  agreeably  written." — 
Examiner. 

"  A  lively  description  of  impressions  made  upon  a  cultivated  mind,  during 
a  rapid  journey  over  countries  that  never  cease  to  interest.  The  writer  car- 
ried with  him  the  intellitrence  and  manners  of  a  gentleman — the  first  a  key 
to  the  accjuisition  o^ '<'-jwledge,  and  the  last  a  means  of  obtaining  access  to 
the  best  sources  of  information." — Literary  Gazette. 

"  We  know  no  volumes  furnishing  purer  entertainment,  or  better  calcu- 
lated to  raise  up  vast  ideas  of  past  glories,  and  the  present  aspects  of  the 
people  and  lands  of  the  most  attractive  region  of  the  world." — Court 
Journal 

"  Of  recent  books  of  Eastern  Travel,  Mr.  Warburton's  is  by  far  the  best. 
He  writes  like  a  poet  and  an  artist,  and  there  is  a  general  feeling  of  bonho- 
mie in  everything  he  says,  that  makes  his  work  truly  delightful." — Weekly 
Chronicle. 

"  This  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  admirable  publications  of  the 
day.  The  accomplished  tourist  presents  us  with  graphic  and  life-like  de- 
scriptions of  the  scenes  and  personages  he  has  witnessed.  His  narrative  is 
written  in  the  most  elegant  and  graphic  style,  and  his  reflections  evince  not 
only  taste  and  genius,  but  well-informed  judgment." — Chester  Courant. 

"  We  could  not  recommend  a  better  book  as  a  travelling  companion  than 
Mr.  Warburton's.  It  is  by  far  the  most  picturesque  production  of  its  class 
that  we  have  for  a  long  time  seen.  Admirably  written  as  is  the  work,  and 
eminently  graphic  as  are  its  descriptions,  it  possesses  a  yet  more  exalted 
merit  in  the  biblical  and  philosophical  illustrations  of  tlie  writer." — United 
Service  .Magazine. 

"  Mr.  W^arburton  possesses  rapidity  and  brilliancy  of  thought,  and  felicity 
of  imagery.  His  natural  and  honest  pleasantry  is  ever  ready  to  give  way 
to  the  gush  of  genuine  emotion,  or  the  burst  of  unfeigned  piety.  But  he  has 
qualities  even  rarer  yet — a  manliness  of  tliought  and  expression,  a  firm  ad- 
herence to  whatever  is  high-souled  and  honorable,  without  one  particle  ol 
clap-trap  sentiment.  Let  his  theme  be  a  great  one,  and  for  it  alone  has  lie 
ears  and  eyes  ;  and  the  higlier  and  more  poetic  the  subject,  the  more  ele- 
gant and  spirit-stirring  are  his  descriptions." — Diihlin  University  Magn 
tine 


WILEY  &  PUTNAM'S  ADVERTISEMENT.  xiii 

XIII. 
HAZLITT'S   AGE  OF   ELIZABETH. 

Lectures  on  the  Dramatic  Literatare  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth.     By  William 

Hazlitt.     Price  50  cents. 

"  The  present  century  has  produced  many  men  of  poetical  genius,  and 
some  of  analytical  acumen  ;  but  I  doubt  whether  it  has  produced  any  one 
who  has  given  to  the  world  such  signal  proofs  of  the  union  of  the  two,  as 
the  late  William  Hazlitt.  If  I  were  asked  his  peculiar  and  predomi- 
nating distinction,  1  should  say  that,  above  all  things,  he  was  a  Critic 
His  taste  was  not  the  creature  of  schools  and  canons,  it  was  begotten  of  En- 
thusiasm by  Thought." — -Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton. 

"  In  all  that  Hazlitt  has  written  on  old  English  authors,  he  is  seldom 
merely  critical.  In  the  laboratory  of  his  intellect,  analysis  was  turned  to 
the  sweet  uses  of  alchemy.  While  he  discourses  of  chariclers  he  has 
known  the  longest,  he  sheds  over  them  the  light  of  his  own  boyhood,  and 
makes  us  partakers  of  the  realizing  power  by  which  they  become  creatures 
of  flesh  and  blood,  with  whom  we  may  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry."  -Serjcanl 
Talfourd. 

"  There  is  no  feature  in  the  retrospect  of  the  last  few  years,  more  impor- 
^nt  and  more  delightful  than  the  steady  advance  of  an  improved  taste  in 
literature  :  and  both  as  a  cause  and  as  a  consequence  of  this,  the  works  ol 
William  Hazlitt,  wliich  heretofore  have  been  duly  appreciated  only  by  the 
few,  are  now  having  ample  justice  done  them  by  the  many.  AVith  refer- 
rence  to  the  present  work,  the  Edinburgh  Review  eloquently  observes, 
'  Mr.  Hazlitt  possesses  one  noble  quality  at  least  for  the  oflice  which  he 
has  chosen,  in  the  intense  admiration  and  love  which  he  feels  for  the  great 
authors  on  whose  excellencies  he  chiefly  dwells.  His  relish  for  their  beau- 
ties is  so  keen,  that  while  he  describes  them,  the  pleasures  which  they  im- 
part become  almost  palpable  to  the  sense,  and  we  seem,  scarcely  in  a  figure, 
to  feast  and  banquet  on  their  '  nectared  sweets.'  He  introduces  us  almost 
corporally  into  the  divine  presence  of  the  great  of  old  time — enables  us  to 
near  the  living  oracles  of  wisdom  drop  from  their  lips — and  makes  us  par- 
takers, not  only  of  those  joys  which  they  difl^used,  but  of  those  which  they 
felt  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  their  souls.  He  draws  aside  the  veil  of  time  with 
a  hand  tremulous  with  mingled  delight  and  reverence ;  and  descants  with 
kindling  enthusiasm,  on  all  the  delacacies  of  that  picture  of  genius  which  he 
discloses.  His  intense  admiration  of  intellectual  beauty  seems  always  to 
sharpen  his  critical  faculties.  He  perceives  it,  by  a  kind  of  intuitive  power, 
how  deeply  soever  it  may  be  buried  in  rubbish  ;  and  separates  it  in  a  do- 
irient  from  all  that  would  encumber  or  deface  it.  At  the  same  time,  he 
exhibits  to  us  those  hidden  sources  of  beauty,  not  like  an  anatomist,  but  like 
a  lover.  He  does  not  coolly  dissect  the  form  to  show  the  sjjrin''^  whence 
the  blood  flows  all  eloquent,  and  the  divine  expression  is  kinaled;  but 
makes  us  feel  in  the  sparkling  or  softened  eye,  the  wreathed  smile,  and  the 
tender  bloom.  In  a  word,  he  at  once  analyzes  and  describes — so  that  our 
enjoyments  of  loveliness  are  not  chilled,  but  brightened  by  our  acquaintance 
with  their  inward  sources.  The  knowledge  communicated  in  his  lectures 
breaks  no  sweet  enchantment,  nor  chills  one  feeling  of  youthful  joy.'" — 
Preface  to  the  London  Edition. 


sir  WILEY  &.  PUTNAM'S  ADVERTISEMENT. 

XIV.  &  XX. 

LEIGH    HUNT'S    INDICATOR. 

The  Indicator  :  a  Miscellany  for  the  Fields  and  the  Fireside.     By  Leigh 
Hunt.     In  Two  Parts.     First  American  Edition.    Price  50  cents  each. 

"  The  reader  may  get  a  very  good  idea  of  Leigh  Hunt's  conversation,  from 
a  very  agreeable  paper  he  has  lately  published,  called  the  Indicator,  than 
which,  nothing  can  bo  more  happily  conceived  or  executed." — Hazlitfs 
Essay  "  07i  the  Conversation  of  Authors." 

"  Many  of  Hunt's  eftusions  in  the  Indicator  show,  that  if  he  had  devoted 
himself  exclusively  to  that  mode  of  writing,  he  inherits  more  of  the  spirit 
of  Steele  than  any  man  since  his  time." — Hazlitt  '■^ on  the  Prose  style  of 
Poets." 

"  A  most  agreeable  miscellany,  which,  from  its  fancy,  whim,  liveliness, 
and  humior,  will  remind  the  reader  of  the  best  Essays  of  Steele,  Addison, 
and  Bonnel  Thornton." — London  Times. 

"  There  can  be  but  one  opinion  of  their  merit  and  interest :  they  can  be 
read  and  re-read  with  ever  fresh  pleasure." — A''ew  Monthly  Magazine. 

"  Full  of  fine  perception  of  truth  and  beauty,  they  deserve  a  place  in 
every  library,  whether  town  or  country." — Literary  Gazette. 

"  This  is  one  of  Leigh  Hunt's  most  entertaining  books.  It  is  a  rare 
work  to  take  up  at  odd  intervals  of  time." — Rover. 

"  These  essays  of  Leigh  Hunt  would  win  their  way  to  every  man's 
heart  (if  they  had  no  other  merit)  by  their  kindliness  of  temper.  We 
only  know  this  writer,  as  we  know  some  few  pleasant  people,  just  enough 
to  wish  to  know  them  better — ^just  enough  to  envy  those  who  can  spend 
more  time  in  their  society.  He  has  claims  enough  upon  any  man"s  atten- 
tion who  has  time  to  bestow  upon  the  amenities  of  literature." — Providence 
Journal. 

"  This  is  a  delightful  volume  Ibrm.  It  is  a  cnoice  melange  of  the  best 
P'ieces  of  Leigh  Hunt,  well  known  to  all  the  readers  of  this  popular 
author." — JS'ew  Haven  Courier. 

"  This  is  a  series  of  papers  of  a  very  elegrwit  and  amusing  character. 
To  bestow  praise  on  the  writings  of  Leigh  Hunt,  would  be  like  wasting 
plaudits  on  the  productions  of  Sliakspeare  or  Byron — a  work  of  supereroga- 
tion— in  which  the  laborer  would  most  effectually  write  himself  down  an 
ass.  We  therefore  content  ourselves  merely  with  saying  that  the  work 
before  us  contains  many,  very  many,  of  the  best  specimens  which  have 
ever  come  from  the  graceful  pen  of  the  author,  and  that  it  is,  therefore,  not 
only  worthy  of  a  place  in  the  '  Library  of  Choice  Reading,'  but  should  bo 
i"  the  possession  of  every  lover  of  good  reading." — Savannah  Republican. 


WILEY  AND  PUTNAM'S  ADVERTISEMENT.  xv 

"  The  production  of  a  highly  inventive  and  accomplished  mind.  It  con- 
tains a  little  of  almost  everything  that  is  droll,  or  striking,  or  beautiful. 
It  is  not  a  work  to  be  devoured  at  once,  but  to  be  taken  up  every  now  and 
then,  when  one  may  have  occasion  to  lounge  a  little  in  the  green  pastures 
of  wit  and  brilliancy." — Albany  Argus. 

"  Leigh  Hunt's  Indicator  and  Companion  is  a  treasure-house  of  poetical 
prose,  of  dainty  reading,  luxurious  imaginings,  '  such  thoughts  as  youtlifiil 
poets  fancy  when  they  dream.'  There  are  passages  of  pure  eloquence, 
other.?  high,  airy,  and  sketchy." — Morning  J\~etLis. 

"  This  work  is  marked  by  very  considerable  variety.  There  are  portions 
of  it  that  will  make  the  gravest  laugh,  and  other  portions  that  vvill  bring  tears 
in  the  eyes  of  the  most  jovial ;  while  there  is  that  kind  of  charm  belonging 
to  the  whole,  that  genius  in  its  mysterious  and  lofty  workings,  never  fail-t 
to  impart.  We  have  been  particularly  interested  in  the  brief  article 
entitled  '■Memories  of  the  Metropolis,'  which  wakes  uj)  many  of  tlie  old 
literary  and  patriotic  associations  of  London.  The  article  on  the  death  et 
little  children,  touches  a  chord  that  vibrates  with  inexpressible  tenderness. 
It  is  on  the  whole  a  highly  agreeable  production." — Albany  Citizen. 

"  The  Indicator  contains  many  pleasant  sketchy  articles." — Protestant 
Churchman. 

"  This  is  a  delightful  little  volume.  Some  of  the  essays  are  as  pleasing 
as  anything  of  the  kind  we  have  ever  read.  Those  on  Thieve.'',  on  S()ri:iir 
and  Daisies,  and  on  May-day,  The  Old  Gentleman,  Steamer  on  Shore,  and 
that  on  the  Realities  of  Imagination  may  l)e  namcd-as  admirable.  With  hss 
depth  than  Hazlitt,  and  less  pathos  than  Lamb,  Hunt  is  more  sprightly 
than  the  former,  and  less  overstrained  than  the  latter,  and  his  writings,  like 
theirs,  are  eminently  suggestive. — Then  this  volume  in  addition  to  its 
original  merits  possesses  this,  that  it  is,  what  its  name  implies,  an  Indica- 
tor of  many  of  the  sweetest  passages  of  English  poetry.  It  is  indeed  a  work 
for  all  lover's  of  poetry,  whether  in  the  "form  of  prose  or  verse;  and  we 
regard  it  as  a  most  favorable  sign  of  the  literary  times  that  the  enterprising 
publishers  of  this  new  series  find  it  for  their  interest  to  publish  the  writ- 
ings of  those  '  Cockney'  classics,  Hazlitt,  Hunt,  &c.,  who  Were  a  few  years 
since  almost  lost  sight  of  through  the  iiilluence  of  a  narrow  and  tabs 
criticism." — Cincinnati  Gazette. 

"  This  is  a  very  excellent  work.  It  comprises  some  of  the  most  beautiful 
anl  instructive  essays  in  the  language,  and  cannot  fail  to  be  well  received, 
b)  all  who  have  regard  for  the  choicest  and  best  reading  of  the  day.  AV'e 
are  heartily  glad  to  see  the  successive  issues  of  this  Library  continued  with 
BO  much  promptness  as  well  as  taste.  In  point  of  selection  as  well  as  styh; 
ol  publication  it  is  one  of  the  best  literary  enterprises  of  the  day.  We  arj 
glad  to  believe  that  it  is  one  of  the  most  successful." — Courier. 

"  Agreeableness  expresses  the  character  of  these  essays,  perhaps,  as  well 
as  any  word  that  we  can  at  the  moment  employ.  Without  exhibiting  the 
habit  of  profound  observation,  or  acute  and  comprehensive  criticism,  which 
distinguished  some  of  the  illustrious  wits  with  whom  Hunt  has  had  the 
good  fortune  to  be  associated,  they  yet  have  attractions  for  any  man  who 


xvi  WILEY  &  PUTNAM'S  ADVERTISEMENT. 

has  time  and  taste  for  the  brief  eflusions  of  literature  and  fancy,  table  talk 
and  li,a,ht  reading.  Things  of  this  sort,  the  delicacies  and  trifles  of  litera- 
ture, the  pleasing  amusements  of  general  wit,  sometimes  insinuate  a  taste 
for  higher  studies  ;  they  will  at  least  steal  moments  from  the  busy  round  of 
dissipation  and  trade,  and  beguile  many  a  tedious  hour  of  its  ennui.  Bless- 
ings then,  we  say,  on  Leigh  Hunt  and  the  Poets. — JVewark  Advertiser. 

"  Here  we  have  another  and  perhaps  the  most  charming  of  Hunt's 
volumes.  His  varied  accomplishments,  his  lively  sense  of  individuality  in 
character,  his  delicate  perception  as  a  critic,  his  power  of  apt  and  familiar 
illustration  sparkle  in  little  points  of  light  from  every  pUge  of  the  book." — 
Tribune. 

"  This  volume  contains  several  papers  which  are  well  worth  preserviiig — 
which  have  in  tliem  the  elements  of  life — and  which  will  leave  a  definite 
and  iicrhaps  a  permanent  impression  upon  every  one  who  reads  them." — 
Broadway  Journal. 

"  We  are  pleased  to  see  more  of  tliis  favorite  writer's  productions  brought 
before  the  public  in  this  form.  His  writings  breathe  such  an  elevated 
symj)athy  with  nature,  and  faith  in  whatever  is  best  in  humanity,  that  we 
iiope  this,  and  the  writings  which  have  already  been  republished  here,  may 
gain  for  him  as  many  warm  admirers  as  they  have  done  in  his  own  land. 
Every  chapter  of  the  book  is  composed  of  something  rare,  original,  and 
humorous,  to  keep  up  the  idea  suggested  by  the  title." — HunVs  Magazine. 


XV. 
ZSCHOKKE'S     TALES. 

Tales  from  the  German  of  Heinrich  Zschokke.    In  Two  Parts.    Part  I      By 
Parke  Godwin.     Price  50  cents. 

Contents  OF  Part  I. — Fool  of  the  XIX.  Century;  Harmonius ;  Jack 
Steam ;  Floretta,  or  the  First  Lnve  of  Henry  IV.;  Adventures  of  a  New 
Year's  Eve. 

"  All  the  fictions  of  this  author  are  finely  written,  and  develope  vivacious 
and  diversified  portraitures  of  human  character  The  personages  who  cir- 
culate through  the  elegant  and  amusing  pages  of  Zschokke's  Novels,  are,  one 
and  all,  faithful  transcripts  I'rom  nature,  and  form  a  garland  of  diverting 
characters." — Thimm's  Liter,  of  Germany. 

"  Most  of  Zschokke's  Tales  exhibit  talent,  grace,  and  facility  of  style  ; 
and  are  particularly  distinguished  for  their  good  moral  tendency." — Ency. 
Br  it  an 

"  This  is  a  most  capital  work,  consisting  of  various  talcs  of  liumor,  sen- 
timent, and  wisdom.  .  .  But  we  must  leave  the  book  reluctantly;  accre- 
diting Mr.  Godwin  for  good  editorial  service  and  an  excellent  cf)llection." 
J^-'oadtuay  Journal. 


WILEY  &  PUTNAM'S  ADVERTISEMENT.  xvii 


*'  We  know  of  no  German  writer  in  the  same  walk  of  art  whose  works 
better  deserve  translation  into  our  language  than  the  works  of  Zschokke  ; 
and  nothing  in  the  literary  way  has  lately  pleased  us  more  than  this 
att«mpt  to  give  us  a  complete  edition  of  one  of  our  favorite  authors,  des- 
tinbd,  we  think,  to  become  a  general  favorite,  as  soon  as  known." — Demo 
cratic  Review. 

"  This  rare  book  will  be  thrice  welcome  to  the  lovers  of  elegant  litera- 
ture. The  tales  embrace  historical,  satirical,  humorous  and  moral  subjects, 
and  take  rank  among  the  very  best  specimens  of  this  style  of  writing."— 
Mover. 

"  These  tales  are  written  in  a  pleasing  style,  pregnant  with  much  humor, 
and  have  an  undercurrent  of  thorough,  deep,  German  earnestness,  with 
here  and  there  a  philosophic  reflection,  partaking  of  the  spirit  of  Kant, 
whose  philosophy  he  adopted.  Zschokke's  '  Hours  of  Meditation'  have 
made  him  chiefly  known  to  the  English  reader  as  a  writer  ;  and  these  tales, 
produced  as  occasion  has  suggested,  appear  to  ba  the  result  of  his  hours  of 
recreation.  To  all  admirers  of  the  German  style  and  literature,  they  cannot 
fail  to  prove  a  welcome  publication.  The  translator  has  happily  caught  the 
spirit  of  the  author,  and  the  work  is  thus  given  to  us  in  free  readable  Eng- 
lish, by  one  who  is  evidently  a  finished  German  scholar." — Hunfs  Mag. 

"  This  is  a  production  from  the  pen  of  a  German  of  great  literary  attain- 
ments— a  singularly  eccentric  writer,  who  wields  the  pen  apparently  more 
for  his  own  amusement  than  for  either  the  profits  or  glories  of  authorship. 
In  the  number  before  us  are  the  following  amusing  and  interesting  articles  : 
•  The  Fool  of  the  19th  Century,'  '  Jack  Steam,'  '  Floretta,'  and  the 
'  Adventures  of  a  New  Year's  Eve.'  They  are  all  well  written  papers, 
from  the  pen  of  diflerent  translators,  but  all  bearing  the  impress  of  the 
same  brain,  all  characterized  by  the  same  peculiarities  which  mark  the 
intellect  of  Zschokke  himself.  They  are  wild,  eccentric,  thrilling,  and 
even  dull  at  times ;  yet,  with  all,  they  are  most  interesting  and  readable 
papers." — Savannah  liepublican. 


XVI.  &  XIX. 

HOOD'S  PROSE  AND  VERSE. 

Prose  and  Yerse.     By  Thomas  Hood.     First  American  Edition,  beautifully 
printed,  in  two  parts,  each  38  cents. 

"  More  tender,  more  graceful,  or  more  beautifully  wrought  lyrics,  are 
scarcely  to  be  found  in  the  language.  They  'smack  of  the  old  poets  ;'  they 
liave  all  the  truth  and  nature  for  which  the  great  Bards  are  preeminent." — 
*>'.  C.  Hatl.—liuoh  of  Gam. 

"  Hood  was  '  a  true  poet  and  true  man,  and  his  better  works  will  live  so 
long  a)  human  sympathy  is  felt  for  human  suflering  and  wrong.'  Reader, 
do  buy  these  well-printed  fruits  of  his  genius;  they  will  do  you  good."— 
JViwark  Jldvertiscr. 

o 


xviii  WILEY  &  PUTNAM'S  ADVERTISEMENT. 

"  A  very  judicious  selection,  designed  to  embrace  Hood's  more  earnest 
writings,  those  which  were  written  most  directly  from  the  heart,  which 
reflect  most  faithfully  his  life  and  opmions."— Broadway  Journal 

"  Hood  was  a  merry  fellow  in  print,  a  man  of  sense,  a  philosopher,  a  wit, 
a  genius,  and  a  poet.  His  name  will  stand  bright  among  the  best  writers 
of  light  literature  in  England."— -Shjj^A's  Weekly  Volume. 

"  A  book  full  of  rich  humor,  which  cannot  fail  to  become  immensely 
popular." — Pennsylvania  Inquirer. 

"  If  ever  a  book  was  destined  to  become  popular,  here  it  is.  These 
volumes  should  be  received  with  a  respectful  pleasure  as  a  memento  of  a 
great  heart — as  a  monument,  as  it  were,  of  departed  genius." — Rover. 

"  How  valuable  this  offering  is,  of  so  much  of 'Hood's  own,'  his  myriad 
admirers,  and  all  who  have  human  sympathies,  will  appreciate.  Whoever 
has  need  of  food  for  mirth  and  sadness,  may  here  find  satisfaction,  where  the 
true  and  grotesque,  the  beautiful  and  deformed,  are  so  strikingly  mingled. 
Whether  he  writes  earnestly,  as  in  his  Literary  Reminiscences,  or  his  deeply 
expressive  poems  and  songs;  or  mirthfully,  as  in  the  legend  of'MissKill- 
mansegg  and  her  Precious  Leg,'  or  in  still  another  vein  upon  the  other  sub- 
jects of  the  Collection,  we  recognize  unmistakcably  his  spirit.  We  can  only 
here  express  the  hope  that  the  fragments  which  he  has  left  behind  him 
(his  all  to  give,  and  the  fault  of  the  world  that  they  were  not  greater),  may 
be  collected  ;  and,  with  what  additions  the  recollections  of  his  friends  can 
afford,  may  be  given  to  the  public." — Hunt's  Magazine. 

"  This  collection  is  not  designed  to  comprise  all  the  writings  of  this  popu- 
lar author,  but  it  is  a  selection  from  his  more  serious  productions,  both  in 
prose  and  verse,  few  of  which  are  generally  known  in  this  country,  where 
his  comic  works  have  established  fcr  him  a  reputation,  which  recognizes  hia 
cleverness,  but  does  not  do  justice  to  his  powers,  and  the  versatility  of  his 
genius.  Few  writers  have  been  able  to  touch  the  heart  like  Thomas  Hood, 
and  the  day  is  not  far  oft' when  his  works  will  enjoy  an  undisputed  position 
among  the  English  classics. — Anglo  American. 

"  The  articles  '  Boz  in  America,'  '  Copy  right  and  copy  wrong,'  '  Domestic 
mesmerism,  &c.  &c.,  can  hardly  be  read  with  indifference  by  any  body. 
The  book  contains  also  some  exquisite  poetry,  particularly  the  '  Elm  Tree,' 
which  could  not  have  been  produced  except  by  a  genius  under  powerful 
inspiration." — Albany  Argv^. 

"  Hood  was  not  a  joker  merely.  His  fun  bears  no  proportion  to  what  was 
serious,  thoughtful  and  elevated  in  his  writings.  He  was  <i  thinker  and  a 
diviner.  He  could  compass  the  spells  of  poesy,  and  was  a  frequent  wan- 
derer into  fairy-land.  He  dealt  successfully  in  the  pathetic,  and  sometimes 
happened  upon  the  tragic  with  rare  success  and  beauty.  The  collection 
befoie  us  is  meant  to  comprise  selections  from  his  writings  in  those  depart- 
ments in  which  he  is  less  generally  known  to  the  public  ; — and  will,  for  this 
reason,  while  it  places  the  author  in  a  really  better  light  than  before, 
possess  much  of  the  charm  of  freshness,  in  the  eye  of  the  reader.  The 
selections  are  made  with  taste  and  judgment,  and  the  volume  is  a  highly 
interesting  one." — Southern  Patriot. 


WILEY  &  PUTNAM'S  ADVERTISEMENT.  xix 

"  We  would  call  particular  attention  to  this  excellent  work." — Provi- 
dence Journal. 

"  A  selection  of  the  writings  of  this  inimitable  author,  humorist  and 
moralist,  is  well  timed.  The  more  Hood  is  known  the  better  he  will  be 
appreciated;  his  wit  is  as  keen  as  his  jjathos  is  inimitable.  The  '  Bridge 
of  Sighs'  and  the  '  Song  of  the  Shirt'  will  compare  with  anything  in  our 
language  for  their  mfilancholy  interest  and  intensity  of  truthful  portraiture." 
— JVorth  American. 

"  If  there  are  any  finer  specimens  of  humor  in  the  language  than  are 
furnished  by  this  volume,  we  know  not  where  to  look  for  them.  One  or 
two  of  the  letters  under  the  head  'The  Great  Conflagration,' are  of  the 
same  stamp  with  tlie  letters  of  the  illustrious  Jack  Downing  ;  and  we 
rather  think  the  former  will  bear  the  palm  in  a  comparison  witll  the  latter. 
A  single  one  of  these  miscellaneous  productions  would  be  enough  to  stamp 
the  author  as  one  of  the  greatest  wits  of  the  age." — Albany  Citizen. 

XVII. 
CHARACTERS     OF     SHAKSPEARE. 

Characters  of  Shakspeare.     By  William  Hazlitt.     1  volume,  beautifully 

printed.     Price  50  cents. 

"  An  admirable  book  is  this,  full  of  simple,  earnest,  profound  criticism, 
with  an  excellent  tone  of  feeling.  The  remarks  on  erach  play  are  not  so 
long  as  to  be  tiresome,  but  are  full  of  thought  and  beauty.  There  is  a  true 
and  natural  depth  in  the  criticisms,  without  any  straining  after  profound- 
ness and  great  philosophy,  which  disligures  some  of  the  critics  on  Shak- 
speare. It  is  a  volume  full  of  instruction  and  good  taste." — Aezo  York 
Evangelist. 

"  One  of  the  best  works  of  Hazlitt,  and,  of  course,  full  of  thought  and 
interest.  Hazlitt  was  one  of  the  earliest  of  those  critics  who  seem  to  be 
fully  alive  to  the  real  greatness  of  Shakspeare,  and  has  furnished  a  mass  of 
fine  remark  for  the  use  of  subsequent  Shakespearian  editors  and  lecturers."— 
Evening  Post. 

"  The  criticism  of  Hazlitt  is  as  familiar  as  are  the  works  of  the  poets, 
dramatists  and  painters,  on  which  it  is  exercised.  It  is  remarkably  enter- 
taining and  instructive, — pointing  out  the  peculiar  merits,  and  directing 
attention  to  the  minor  as  well  as  to  the  more  prominent  beauties  of  the 
author,  and  illustrative  of  all  that  is  obscure,  whether  so  rendered  by  the 
progress  and  improvements  made  in  our  language,  or  by  any  felicity  of 
expression  on  the  part  of  the  writer." — Journal  of  Commerce. 

"  It  would  be  a  shocking  incongruity  for  any  other  than  a  most  discrimi- 
nating and  gifted  mind  to  undertake  the  task  of  commenting  upon  the 
chanirt  TS  of  Shakspeare;  but  that  William  Hazlitt  was  abundantly  adequate 
to  it,  Ts^'inanifest  from  the  work  which  he  lias  produced.  He  makes  every 
character  that  passes  under  his  view  stand  forth  as  in  the  broad  light  of  the 
•un      He  brings  before  tiic  eye  of  the  ordinary  reader  rnanv  hidden  beauties, 


XX  WILEY  &  PUTNAM'S  ADVERTISEMENT. 

of  the  existence  of  which,  often  as  he  may  have  read  Shakspeare,  he  had 
never  dreamed.  In  short,  he  shows  a  perfect  familiarity  with  this  Prince 
among  dramatists,  and  one  scarcely  knows  which  most  to  admire,  the  won- 
derful power  of  Shakspeare's  characters,  or  the  magic  of  the  pen  by  which 
they  are  brought  before  us." — American  Citizen. 

"  Originality  is  the  distinguishing  feature  of  all  Hazlitt's  productions. 
His  dramatic  criticisms  are  much  and  deservedly  admired  ;  he  seems  imbued 
thoroughly  with  the  spirit  of  Shakspeare." — Asiatic  Journal. 

"  The  present  volume  is  a  splendid  gem  which  no  reader  of  Shakspeare 
should  lack  ;  the  twaddle  of  the  one  hundred  and  one  commentators  all 
vanishes  before  the  sunshine  Hazlitt  sheds  on  Nature's  best  expositor." — 
Sunday  Times. 

"  This  is  a  very  pleasing  book,  and  we  do  not  hesitate  to  say  a  book  of 
considerable  originality  and  genius.  What  we  chiefly  look  for  in  such  a 
book  is  a  fine  sense  of  the  beauties  of  the  author,  and  an  eloquent  exposition 
of  them, — and  all  this  and  more  may  be  found  in  the  volume  before  us." — 
Editiburgh  Review. 

•■'  We  have  not  a  doubt  of  this  neat,  beautiful,  and  cheap  edition  of 
a  highly  original  and  valuable  work  meeting  with  a  rapid  sale,  unless  all  the 
relish  for  the  immortal  dramatist,  and  all  desire  to  possess  some  of  the  most 
eloquent  and  searching  criticisms  that  have  ever  been  written,  have  departed 
from  us." — Monthly  Review. 

"  Who  has  spoken  with  the  same  penetrative  spirit,  and  in  the  same  con 
genial  vein  ?     Who  has  ever  perused  one  of  his  glowing  commentaries  on 
these  plays  without  rising  with  a  deeper  perception  and  more  intense  love 
and  admiration  of  their  unapproachable  divimiyV— Tail's  Magazine. 

"  What  can  we  possibly  say  in  commendation  of  a  book  of  the  above  title 
— by  Hazlitt.  To  criticize  or  find  fault  with  it,  even  were  it  in  our  power 
to.  do  so,  would  be  like  putting  our  own  opinion  and  judgment  against  that 
of  all  the  world,  and  to  praise  it  would  be  repeating  what  everybody  has 
done  before  us..  We  dislike  Hazlitt's  peevishness,  fault-finding  and  discon- 
tentedness,  which  are  displayed  in  many  of  ins  books;  but  in  his  works 
upon  Shakspeare,  his  'Age  of  Elizabeth,'  the  work  before  us,  and  others, 
we  can  only  find  matter  for  admiration — none  for  censure." — Saturday 
Emporium. 


XVIII. 

"THE    CROCK    OF    GOLD. 

Tlie  Crock  of  Gold.  A  Rural  Novel.  By  Martin  Farquhar  Tupper, 
Author  of  "  Proverbial  Philosophy,"  &c.  1  vol.,  beautifully  printed. 
Price  3S  cents. 

"  This  delightful  work  we  pronounce  as  one  of  the  best  novels  of  the 
day.  Besides  possessing  intense  interest,  its  moral  tone  is  very  high  and 
pure,  and  no  person  can  rise  from  its  perusal  without  being  tenfold  repaid 
for  the  time  he  has  spent  over  its  pages." — Rover. 


WILEY  &  PUTNAM'S  ADVERTISEMENT.  xxi 

"  This  is  the  eighteenth  number  of  Wiley  &  Putnam's  series  of  Books 
which  are  Books.'  The  Proverbial  Philosophy  of  the  same  author,  a  work 
from  which  we  have  frequently  made  selections,  has  established  his  repu- 
tation. The  present  tale  is  characterized  by  so  much  genuine  feeling,  and 
such  a  healthy  moral  tone  of  sentiment,  that  we  trust  the  favor  with  which 
it  must  be  received  will  tempt  the  publishers  to  give  us  the  Proverbial 
Philosophy,  and  other  productions  of  the  author,  in  the  subsequent  numbers 
of  The  Library  of  Choice  Reading.'" — Protestant  Churchma'i 

"  This  is  a  rural  novel,  purporting  to  give  the  history  of  a  poor  laborer 
and  his  family,  who  from  a  life  of  peaceful  and  contented  drudgery,  became 
discontented  and  unreconciled  to  the  doings  of  an  all  wise  Providence,  and 
gradually  involved  in  various  domestic  and  serious  troubles." — Boston 
Traveller. 

"  This  interesting  tale  excited  considerable  attention  on  its  first  appear- 
ance, on  account  of  the  skill  and  dramatic  interest  of  the  narrative,  and  the 
moral  lessons  it  conveys." — Christian  Intelligencer. 

"A  powerful  tale,  by  Martin  Farquhar  Tupper,  author  of  Proverbial 
Philosophy.  The  design  of  the  story  is  to  teach  the  bitterness  of  sin,  now 
and  always,  and  most  terribly  is  this  truth  taught,  in  the  tale  and  in  the 
episodes  of  the  author,  which  are  in  the  strongest  style  of  lay  preaching." — 
J\''ew  York  Obsei-oer. 

"  This  book,  like  others  from  the  same  hand,  is  chiefly  remarkable  for 
the  purity  of  moral  feeling  it  evinces.  There  are,  however,  passages  and 
traits  of  considerable  power  in  the  description  of  the  struggles  in  Roger 
Acton's  mind  when  tempted  by  the  greed  of  Gold,  and  in  the  Murder 
Scene.  The  Twelfth  Chapter  we  give  as  one  of  the  best  painted  interviews 
between  humble  lovers,  extant,  and  because  it  well  bears  being  detached 
from  the  rest  of  the  book,  besides  giving  a  favorable  specimen  of  it." — 
Tribune. 

"Another  really  good  book,  added  to  a  series  of  good  books.  Mr.  Tap- 
per's prose  writings,  if  we  may  take  this  book  for  a  sample,  are  excellent." 
—  Saturday  Emporium. 

"  This  rural  story  may  be  emphatically  described  as  the  opposite  of  a 
fashionable  novel.  An  admirable  moral  is  kept  in  view  always,  and  there 
is  a  religious  feeling  to  be  noticed  as  communicating  solemnity  to  the  sen- 
timent, and  not  unfrequently  coloring  the  style,  and  giving  a  scriptural  turn 
to  simple  expressions.  On  the  whole  '  The  Crock  of  Gold'  is  a  book  to  do 
the  reader  good." — London  Examiner. 

•'  I  predict  that  Mr.  Tupper  will  yet  be  one  of  the  best  known  and  most 
Icved  authors  whose  books  have  crossed  the  waters  to  us." — JV.  P.  Willis' 
Letter  from  Tendon. 


xxii  WILEY  &.  PUTNAM'S  ADVERTISEMENT. 


XXI. 
WILSON'S    BURNS. 

The  Genius  and  Character  of  Burns.     By  Prof.  Wilsox.     1   Vol.     First 
American  Edition,  beautifully  printed.     Price  50  cents. 

"  This  glorious  work  needs  no  commendation." — Tribune. 

"  The  Genius  and  Character  of  Burns,  by  Professor  Wilson,  is,  as  might 
be  anticipated,  a  most  delightful,  touching,  and  eloquent  work.  For  a  just, 
vivid  and  truthful  conception  of  the  power,  genius  and  character  of  the 
Peasant  Poet,  and  a  discriminating  criticism  of  his  immortal  productions, 
no  one  is  more  fitted  than  Christopher  North.  This  is  a  memorial  to  Burns 
which  no  other  hand  could  so  appropriately  have  erected ;  it  is  instinct 
witli  appreciation  of  the  peculiar  merits  and  charms  of  his  poetry,  and  over- 
runs with  sympathy  for  the  man,  in  the  troubles  and  cares  and  melancholy 
which  darkened  the  close  of  his  life." — Protestant  Churchman. 

"  Professor  Wilson  is  capable  of  doing  full  justice  to  the  genius  of  Burns; 
and  he  gives  us  in  this  pleasant  volume,  a  bird's  eye  view,  as  one  may  say, 
of  \.]\e  man  and  his  works,  which  will  let  us  more  fully  into  the  tone  and 
spirit  of  both  the  one  and  the  other,  than  perhaps  anything  which  has  yet 
been  attempted  on  the  subject.  Everybody  knows  Wilson's  style — it  is 
spirited,  graphic  and  genial.  This  picture  of  Burns  possesses  the  better  of 
these  characteristics,  with  less  than  usual  of  the  others.  The  errors  of  some 
biographers,  with  the  misrepresentations  of  others,  are  amusingly  shown 
up.  The  character  of  Burns  is  nobly  vindicated  from  certain  slanderous 
imputations,  and  the  full  exposition  of  the  miserably  mean  treatment  that 
the  Poet  of  Scotland  received  at  the  hands  of  his  countrymen,  ought  to- 
make  the  whole  nation  blush,  if  such-like  great  bodies  had  souls.  Burns' 
extreme  destitution,  which  has  been  charitably  ascribed  to  his  excesses,  is 
easily  accounted  for  when  we  see  what  remuneration  was  thought  sufficient 
for  his  services,  and  the  return  made  for  the  splendid  outpourings  of 
his  genius  by  those  who  ought  to  have  placed  him  at  once  and  for  ever  above 
want.  But  it  is  impossible,  in  an  article  of  moderate  length,  to  give  agust 
idea  of  the  book.  It  should  belong  to  every  library,  as  elucidating,  anff*" 
most  agreeably,  a  subject  of  enduring  interest." — JSTew  York  Mirror. 

"  Wilson's  Genius  and  Character  of  Burns  is  a  masterly  effort,  and  the 
best  view  ever  put  forth,  of  the  Master-Bard  of  Scotland.  Poets  should 
thus  criticise  poetry.  Parnassus  might  then  hold  a  critical  court  as  well  as 
continue  to  be  '  The  Muses'  Hill,'  and  critics  breathing  the  pure  air  of  the 
place  might  judge  more  generously  than  they  can  now-a-days,  pent  up  in  a 
close  room  or  office,  of  a  broiling  hot  day,  in  a  close  and  populous  city." — 
Democratic  Review. 

"  This  book  was  written  by  a  man  who  had  the  genius  to  comprehend 
and  appreciate  the  peculiar  powers  of  the  individual  who  is  the  subject  of 
it.  Burns  was,  in  his  way,  certainly  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  world ;  and 
perhaps  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  his  is  the  very  brightest  name  that 
history  records  in  the  department  in  which  he  was  most  at  home — and 


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